THE  WORKS  OF 
GILBERT  PARKER 


IMPERIAL  EDITION 

VOLUME 

I 


GILBERT  PARKER 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

TALES  OF  THE  FAR  NORTH 


NEW   YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1916 


Copyright,  1894, 
BY  STONE  &  KIMBALL 


Copyright.  1898. 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1912, 
BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


So 

MY   BROTHERS 

FREDERICK,    LIONEL,   HARRY,   AND   ARTHUB 

AND 
BLISS   CARMAN,    MY   COMRADE 


2224SS9 


GENERAL   INTRODUCTION 

WITH  each  volume  of  this  subscription  edition  there  is  a  special 
introduction,  setting  forth,  in  so  far  as  seemed  possible,  the  rela- 
tion of  each  work  to  myself,  to  its  companion  works,  and  to  the 
scheme  of  my  literary  life.  Only  one  or  two  things,  therefore, 
need  be  said  here,  as  I  wish  God-speed  to  this  edition,  which, 
I  trust,  may  help  to  make  old  friends  warmer  friends  and  new 
friends  more  understanding.  Most  of  the  novels  and  most  of 
the  short  stories  were  suggested  by  incidents  or  characters  which 
I  had  known,  had  heard  of  intimately,  or,  as  in  the  case  of  the 
historical  novels,  had  discovered  in  the  works  of  historians.  In 
no  case  are  the  main  characters  drawn  absolutely  from  life;  they 
are  not  portraits;  and  the  proof  of  that  is  that  no  one  has  ever 
been  able  to  identify,  absolutely,  any  single  character  in  these 
books.  Indeed,  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  restrict  myself 
to  actual  portraiture.  It  is  trite  to  say  that  photography  is 
not  art,  and  photography  has  no  charm  for  the  artist,  or  the 
humanitarian  indeed,  in  the  portrayal  of  life.  At  its  best  it  is 
only  an  exhibition  of  outer  formal  characteristics,  idiosyncrasies, 
and  contours.  Freedom  is  the  first  essential  of  the  artistic  mind. 
As  will  be  noticed  in  the  introductions  and  original  notes  to 
several  of  these  volumes,  it  is  stated  that  they  possess  anachro- 
nisms; that  they  are  not  portraits  of  people  living  or  dead,  and 
that  they  only  assume  to  be  in  harmony  with  the  spirit  of  men 
and  times  and  things.  Perhaps  in  the  first  few  pages  of  The 
Right  of  Way  portraiture  is  more  nearly  reached  than  in  any 
other  of  these  books,  but  it  was  only  the  nucleus,  if  I  may  say 
so,  of  a  larger  development  which  the  original  Charley  Steele 

vii 


viii  GENERAL  INTRODUCTION 

never  attained.  In  the  novel  he  grew  to  represent  infinitely 
more  than  the  original  ever  represented  in  his  short  life. 

That  would  not  be  strange  when  it  is  remembered  that  the 
germ  of  The  Right  of  Way  was  growing  in  my  mind  over  a  long 
period  of  years,  and  it  must  necessarily  have  developed  into  a 
larger  conception  than  the  original  character  could  have  sug- 
gested. The  same  may  be  said  of  the  chief  characters  in  The 
Weavers.  The  story  of  the  two  brothers — David  Claridge  and 
Lord  Eglington — in  that  book  was  brewing  in  my  mind  for  quite 
fifteen  years,  and  the  main  incidents  and  characters  of  other 
novels  in  this  edition  had  the  same  slow  growth.  My  forthcom- 
ing novel,  called  The  Judgment  House,  had  been  in  my  mind  for 
nearly  twenty  years  and  only  emerged  when  it  was  full  grown, 
as  it  were;  when  I  was  so  familiar  with  the  characters  that  they 
seemed  as  real  in  all  ways  as  though  they  were  absolute  people 
and  incidents  of  one's  own  experience. 

Little  more  need  be  said.  In  outward  form  the  publishers  have 
made  this  edition  beautiful.  I  should  be  ill-content  if  there  was 
not  also  an  element  of  beauty  in  the  work  of  the  author.  To  my 
mind  truth  alone  is  not  sufficient.  Every  work  of  art,  no  matter 
how  primitive  in  conception,  how  tragic  or  how  painful,  or  even 
how  grotesque  in  design — like  the  gargoyles  on  Notre  Dame — 
must  have,  too,  the  elements  of  beauty — that  which  lures  and 
holds,  the  durable  and  delightful  thing.  I  have  a  hope  that  these 
books  of  mine,  as  faithful  to  life  as  I  could  make  them,  have  also 
been  touched  here  and  there  by  the  staff  of  beauty.  Otherwise 
their  day  will  be  short  indeed;  and  I  should  wish  for  them  a 
day  a  little  longer  at  least  than  my  day  and  span. 

I  launch  the  ship.  May  it  visit  many  a  port!  May  its  freight 
never  lie  neglected  on  the  quays! 


INTRODUCTION 

So  far  as  my  literary  work  is  concerned  Pierre  and  His  People 
may  be  likened  to  a  new  city  built  upon  the  ashes  of  an  old 
one.  Let  me  explain.  While  I  was  in  Australia  I  began  a 
series  of  short  stories  and  sketches  of  life  in  Canada  which  I 
called  Pike  Pole  Sketches  on  the  Madawaska.  A  very  few  of 
them  were  published  in  Australia,  and  I  brought  with  me  to 
England  in  1889  about  twenty  of  them  to  make  into  a  volume. 
I  told  Archibald  Forbes,  the  great  war  correspondent,  of  my 
wish  for  publication,  and  asked  him  if  he  would  mind  reading 
the  sketches  and  stories  before  I  approached  a  publisher.  He 
immediately  consented,  and  one  day  I  brought  him  the  little 
brown  bag  containing  the  tales. 

A  few  days  afterwards  there  came  an  invitation  to  lunch,  and 
I  went  to  Clarence  Gate,  Regent's  Park,  to  learn  what  Archi- 
bald Forbes  thought  of  my  tales.  We  were  quite  merry  at 
luncheon,  and  after  luncheon,  which  for  him  was  a  glass  of  milk 
and  a  biscuit,  Forbes  said  to  me,  "Those  stories,  Parker — you 
have  the  best  collection  of  titles  I  have  ever  known."  He 
paused.  I  understood.  To  his  mind  the  tales  did  not  live  up 
to  their  titles.  He  hastily  added,  "  But  I  am  going  to  give  you  a 
letter  of  introduction  to  Macmillan.  I  may  be  wrong."  My 
reply  was :  "  You  need  not  give  me  a  letter  to  Macmillan  un- 
less I  write  and  ask  you  for  it." 

I  took  my  little  brown  bag  and  went  back  to  my  comfortable 
rooms  in  an  old-fashioned  square.  I  sat  down  before  the  fire 
on  this  bleak  winter's  night  with  a  couple  of  years'  work  on  my 
knee.  One  by  one  I  glanced  through  the  stories  and  in  some 

cases  read  them  carefully,  and  one  by  one  I  put  them  in  the  fire, 

ix 


x  INTRODUCTION 

and  watched  them  burn.  I  was  heavy  at  heart,  but  I  felt  that 
Forbes  was  right,  and  my  own  instinct  told  me  that  my  ideas 
were  better  than  my  performance — and  Forbes  was  right.  Noth- 
ing was  left  of  the  tales;  not  a  shred  of  paper,  not  a  scrap  of 
writing.  They  had  all  gone  up  the  chimney  in  smoke.  There 
was  no  self-pity.  I  had  a  grim  kind  of  feeling  regarding  the 
thing,  but  I  had  no  regrets,  and  I  have  never  had  any  regrets 
since.  I  have  forgotten  most  of  the  titles,  and  indeed  all  the 
stories  except  one.  But  Forbes  and  I  were  right;  of  that  I  am 
sure. 

The  next  day  after  the  arson  I  walked  for  hours  where  London 
was  busiest.  The  shop  windows  fascinated  me;  they  always 
did;  but  that  day  I  seemed,  subconsciously,  to  be  looking  for 
something.  At  last  I  found  it.  It  was  a  second-hand  shop  in 
Covent  Garden.  In  the  window  there  was  the  uniform  of  an 
officer  of  the  time  of  Wellington,  and  beside  it — the  leather  coat 
and  fur  cap  of  a  trapper  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company!  At 
that  window  I  commenced  to  build  again  upon  the  ashes  of  last 
night's  fire.  Pretty  Pierre,  the  French  half-breed,  or  rather  the 
original  of  him  as  I  knew  him  when  a  child,  looked  out  of  the 
window  at  me.  So  I  went  home,  and  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire 
which  had  received  my  manuscript  the  night  before,  with  a  pad 
upon  my  knee,  I  began  to  write  The  Patrol  of  the  Cypress  Hills 
which  opens  Pierre  and  His  People. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  I  went  to  service  at  the  Foundling 
Hospital  in  Bloomsbury,  and  while  listening  superficially  to  the 
sermon  I  was  also  reading  the  psalms.  I  came  upon  these  words, 
"Free  among  the  Dead  like  unto  them  that  are  wounded  and  lie 
in  the  grave,  that  are  out  of  remembrance,"  and  this  text,  which  I 
used  in  the  story  The  Patrol  of  the  Cypress  Hills,  became,  in  a 
sense,  the  text  for  all  the  stories  which  came  after.  It  seemed 
to  suggest  the  lives  and  the  end  of  the  lives  of  the  workers  of 
the  pioneer  world. 

So  it  was  that  Pierre  and  His  People  chiefly  concerned  those 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

who  had  been  wounded  by  Fate,  and  had  suffered  the  robberies 
of  life  and  time  while  they  did  their  work  in  the  wide  places. 
It  may  be  that  my  readers  have  found  what  I  tried,  instinctively, 
to  convey  in  the  pioneer  life  I  portrayed — "  The  soul  of  goodness 
in  things  evil."  Such,  on  the  whole,  my  observation  had  found  in 
life,  and  the  original  of  Pierre,  with  all  his  mistakes,  misdemean- 
ours, and  even  crimes,  was  such  an  one  as  I  would  have  gone  to 
in  trouble  or  in  hour  of  need,  knowing  that  his  face  would  never 
be  turned  from  me. 

These  stories  made  their  place  at  once.  The  Patrol  of  the  Cy- 
press Hills  was  published  first  in  The  Independent  of  New  York 
and  in  Macmillan's  Magazine  in  England.  Mr.  Bliss  Carman, 
then  editor  of  The  Independent,  eagerly  published  several  of  them 
— She  of  the  Triple  Chevron  and  others.  Mr.  Carman's  sym- 
pathy and  insight  were  a  great  help  to  me  in  those  early  days. 
The  then  editor  of  Macmillan's  Magazine,  Mr.  Mowbray  Morris, 
was  not,  I  think,  quite  so  sure  of  the  merits  of  the  Pierre  stories. 
He  published  them,  but  he  was  a  little  credulous  regarding  them, 
and  he  did  not  pat  me  on  the  back  by  any  means.  There  was 
one,  however,  who  made  the  best  that  is  in  Pierre  and  His  Peo- 
ple possible;  this  was  the  unforgettable  W.  E.  Henley,  editor 
of  The  National  Observer.  One  day  at  a  sitting  I  wrote  a  short 
story  called  Antoine  and  Angelique,  and  sent  it  to  him  almost  be- 
fore the  ink  was  dry.  The  reply  came  by  return  of  post:  "It  is 
almost,  or  quite,  as  good  as  can  be.  Send  me  another."  So 
forthwith  I  sent  him  God's  Garrison,  and  it  was  quickly  followed 
by  The  Three  Outlaws,  The  Tall  Master,  The  Flood,  The  Cipher, 
A  Prairie  Vagabond,  and  several  others.  At  length  came  The 
Stone,  which  brought  a  telegram  of  congratulation,  and  finally 
The  Crimson  Flag.  The  acknowledgment  of  that  was  a  post- 
card containing  these  all  too-flattering  words :  "  Bravo,  Balzac! " 
Henley  would  print  what  no  other  editor  would  print;  he  gave 
a  man  his  chance  to  do  the  boldest  thing  that  was  in  him,  and  I 
can  truthfully  say  that  the  doors  which  he  threw  open  gave  free- 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

dom  to  an  imagination  and  an  individuality  of  conception,  for 
which  I  can  never  be  sufficiently  grateful. 

These  stories  and  others  which  appeared  in  The  National  Ob- 
server, in  Macmillan's,  in  The  English  Illustrated  Magazine  and 
others  made  many  friends;  so  that  when  the  book  at  length  came 
out  it  was  received  with  generous  praise,  though  not  without  some 
criticism.  It  made  its  place,  however,  at  once,  and  later  appeared 
another  series,  called  An  Adventurer  of  the  North,  or,  as  it  is 
called  in  this  edition,  A  Romany  of  the  Snows.  Through  all  the 
twenty  stories  of  this  second  volume  the  character  of  Pierre 
moved;  and  by  the  time  the  last  was  written  there  was  scarcely  an 
important  magazine  in  the  English-speaking  world  which  had  not 
printed  one  or  more  of  them.  Whatever  may  be  thought  of  the 
stories  themselves,  or  of  the  manner  in  which  the  life  of  the  Far 
North  was  portrayed,  of  one  thing  I  am  sure:  Pierre  was  true  to 
the  life — to  his  race,  to  his  environment,  to  the  conditions  of 
pioneer  life  through  which  he  moved.  When  the  book  first  came 
out  there  was  some  criticism  from  Canada  itself,  but  that  criti- 
cism has  long  since  died  away,  and  it  never  was  determined. 

Plays  have  been  founded  on  the  Pierre  series,  and  one  in  par- 
ticular, Pierre  of  the  Plains,  had  a  considerable  success,  with  Mr. 
Edgar  Selwyn,  the  adapter,  in  the  main  part.  I  do  not  know 
whether,  if  I  were  to  begin  again,  I  should  have  written  all  the 
Pierre  stories  in  quite  the  same  way.  Perhaps  it  is  just  as  well 
that  I  am  not  able  to  begin  again.  The  stories  made  their  own 
place  in  their  own  way,  and  that  there  is  still  a  steady  demand 
for  Pierre  and  His  People  and  A  Romany  of  the  Snows  seems 
evidence  that  the  editor  of  an  important  magazine  in  New  York 
who  declined  to  recommend  them  for  publication  to  his  firm 
(and  later  published  several*  of  the  same  series)  was  wrong, 
when  he  said  that  the  tales  "  seemed  not  to  be  salient."  Things 
that  are  not  "salient"  do  not  endure.  It  is  twenty  years  since 
Pierre  and  His  People  was  produced — and  it  still  endures.  For 
this  I  cannot  but  be  deeply  grateful.  In  any  case,  what  Pierre 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

did  was  to  open  up  a  field  which  had  not  been  opened  before, 
but  which  other  authors  have  exploited  since  with  success  and 
distinction.  Pierre  was  the  pioneer  of  the  Far  North  in  fiction; 
that  much  may  be  said;  and  for  the  rest,  Time  is  the  test,  and 
Time  will  have  its  way  with  me  as  with  the  rest. 


NOTE 

IT  is  possible  that  a  Note  on  the  country  portrayed  in  these 
stories  may  be  in  keeping.  Until  1870,  the  Hudson's  Bay  Com- 
pany— first  granted  its  charter  by  King  Charles  II — practically 
ruled  that  vast  region  stretching  from  the  fiftieth  parallel  of 
latitude  to  the  Arctic  Ocean — a  handful  of  adventurous  men 
entrenched  in  forts  and  posts,  yet  trading  with,  and  mostly 
peacefully  conquering,  many  savage  tribes.  Once  the  sole 
master  of  the  North,  the  H.  B.  C.  (as  it  is  familiarly  called)  is 
reverenced  by  the  Indians  and  half-breeds  as  much  as,  if  not  more 
than,  the  Government  established  at  Ottawa.  It  has  had  its 
forts  within  the  Arctic  Circle;  it  has  successfully  exploited  a 
country  larger  than  the  United  States.  The  Red  River  Valley, 
the  Saskatchewan  Valley,  and  British  Columbia,  are  now  belted 
by  a  great  railway,  and  given  to  the  plough ;  but  in  the  far  north 
life  is  much  the  same  as  it  was  a  hundred  years  ago.  There  the 
trapper,  clerk,  trader,  and  factor  are  cast  in  the  mould  of  another 
century,  though  possessing  the  acuter  energies  of  this.  The 
wyageur  and  courier  de  bois  still  exist,  though,  generally,  under 
less  picturesque  names. 

The  bare  story  of  the  hardy  and  wonderful  career  of  the  ad- 
venturers trading  in  Hudson's  Bay, — of  whom  Prince  Rupert 
was  once  chiefest, — and  the  life  of  the  prairies,  may  be  found  in 
histories  and  books  of  travel;  but  their  romances,  the  near  nar- 
ratives of  individual  lives,  have  waited  the  telling.  In  this  book 
I  have  tried  to  feel  my  way  towards  the  heart  of  that  life — 
worthy  of  being  loved  by  all  British  men,  for  it  has  given  honest 
graves  to  gallant  fellows  of  our  breeding.  Imperfectly,  of  course, 
I  have  done  it;  but  there  is  much  more  to  be  told. 

xv 


xvi  NOTE 

When  I  started  Pretty  Pierre  on  his  travels,  I  did  not  know 
— nor  did  he — how  far  or  wide  his  adventurers  and  experiences 
would  run.  They  have,  however,  extended  from  Quebec  in 
the  east  to  British  Columbia  in  the  west,  and  from  the  Cypress 
Hills  in  the  south  to  the  Coppermine  River  in  the  north.  With  a 
less  adventurous  man  we  had  had  fewer  happenings.  His  faults 
were  not  of  his  race, — that  is,  French  and  Indian, — nor  were  his 
virtues;  they  belong  to  all  peoples.  But  the  expression  of  these 
is  affected  by  the  country  itself.  Pierre  passes  through  this  series 
of  stories,  connecting  them,  as  he  himself  connects  two  races, 
and  here  and  there  links  the  past  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company 
with  more  modern  life  and  Canadian  energy  pushing  northward. 
Here  is  something  of  romance  "  pure  and  simple,"  but  also  tra- 
ditions and  character,  which  are  the  single  property  of  this  austere 
but  not  cheerless  heritage  of  our  race. 

All  of  the  tales  have  appeared  in  magazines  and  journals — 
namely,  The  National  Observer,  Macmillan's,  The  National  Re- 
view, and  The  English  Illustrated;  and  The  Independent  of  New 
York.  By  the  courtesy  of  the  proprietors  of  these  I  am  permitted 
to  republish. 

G.P. 

HARPENDEN, 

HERTFORDSHIRE, 

July,  1892. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS      ....  1 

GOD'S  GARRISON 25 

A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH 35 

A  PRAIRIE  VAGABOND .  .       .  69 

SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON 79 

THREE    OUTLAWS 133 

SHON  MCGANN'S  TOBOGAN  RIDE 143 

PERE  CHAMPAGNE 169 

THE  SCARLET  HUNTER 179 

THE    STONE •  .  .  .203 

THE    TALL   MASTER 215 

THE    CRIMSON    FLAG 237 

THE    FLOOD 249 

IN    PIPI    VALLEY 261 

ANTOINE    AND   ANGELIQUE 285 

THE    CIPHER 295 

A   TRAGEDY    OF    NOBODIES 307 

A    SANCTUARY    OF   THE    PLAINS             .  317 


THE  PATEOL  OF  THE  CYPEESS  HILLS 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS 

"HE'S  too  ha'sh,"  said  old  Alexander  Windsor,  as  he 
shut  the  creaking  door  of  the  store  after  a  vanishing 
figure,  and  turned  to  the  big  iron  stove  with  out- 
stretched hands;  hands  that  were  cold  both  summer 
and  winter.  He  was  of  lean  and  frigid  make. 

"Sergeant  Fones  is  too  ha'sh,"  he  repeated,  as  he 
pulled  out  the  damper  and  cleared  away  the  ashes 
with  the  iron  poker. 

Pretty  Pierre  blew  a  quick,  straight  column  of 
cigarette  smoke  into  the  air,  tilted  his  chair  back, 
and  said:  "I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  'ha'sh,' 
but  he  is  the  devil.  Eh,  well,  there  was  more  than 
one  devil  made  sometime  in  the  North  West."  He 
laughed  softly. 

"That  gives  you  a  chance  in  history,  Pretty  Pierre," 
said  a  voice  from  behind  a  pile  of  woollen  goods  and 
buffalo  skins  in  the  centre  of  the  floor.  The  owner 
of  the  voice  then  walked  to  the  window.  He  scratched 
some  frost  from  the  pane  and  looked  out  to  where  the 
trooper  in  dog-skin  coat,  gauntlets  and  cap,  was 
mounting  his  broncho.  The  old  man  came  and  stood 
near  the  young  man, — the  owner  of  the  voice, — and 
said  again:  "He's  too  ha'sh." 

"Harsh  you  mean,  father,"  added  the  other. 

"Yes,  harsh  you  mean,  Old  Brown  Windsor, — quite 
harsh,"  said  Pierre. 

Alexander  Windsor,  storekeeper  and  general  dealer, 

3 


4  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

was  sometimes  called  "Old  Brown  Windsor"  and 
sometimes  "Old  Aleck,"  to  distinguish  him  from  his 
son,  who  was  known  as  "Young  Aleck." 

As  the  old  man  walked  back  again  to  the  stove  to 
warm  his  hands,  Young  Aleck  continued:  "He  does 
his  duty,  that's  all.  If  he  doesn't  wear  kid  gloves 
while  at  it,  it's  his  choice.  He  doesn't  go  beyond  his 
duty.  You  can  bank  on  that.  It  would  be  hard  to 
exceed  that  way  out  here." 

"True,  Young  Aleck,  so  true;  but  then  he  wears 
gloves  of  iron,  of  ice.  That  is  not  good.  Sometime 
the  glove  will  be  too  hard  and  cold  on  a  man's  shoul- 
der, and  then! —  Well,  I  should  like  to  be  there," 
said  Pierre,  showing  his  white  teeth. 

Old  Aleck  shivered,  and  held  his  fingers  where  the 
stove  was  red  hot. 

The  young  man  did  not  hear  this  speech;  from  the 
window  he  was  watching  Sergeant  Fones  as  he  rode 
towards  the  Big  Divide.  Presently  he  said:  "He's 
going  towards  Humphrey's  place.  I — "  He  stopped, 
bent  his  brows,  caught  one  corner  of  his  slight  mous- 
tache between  his  teeth,  and  did  not  stir  a  muscle  un- 
til the  Sergeant  had  passed  over  the  Divide. 

Old  Aleck  was  meanwhile  dilating  upon  his  theme 
before  a  passive  listener.  But  Pierre  was  only  passive 
outwardly.  Besides  hearkening  to  the  father's  com- 
plaints he  was  closely  watching  the  son.  Pierre  was 
clever,  and  a  good  actor.  He  had  learned  the  power 
of  reserve  and  outward  immobility.  The  Indian  in 
him  helped  him  there.  He  had  heard  what  Young 
Aleck  had  just  muttered;  but  to  the  man  of  the  cold 
fingers  he  said:  "You  keep  good  whisky  in  spite  of  the 
law  and  the  iron  glove,  Old  Aleck."  To  the  young 
man:  "And  you  can  drink  it  so  free,  eh,  Young  Aleck? " 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS   5 

The  half-breed  looked  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes 
at  the  young  man,  but  he  did  not  raise  the  peak  of  his 
fur  cap  in  doing  so,  and  his  glances  askance  were  not 
seen. 

Young  Aleck  had  been  writing  something  with  his 
finger-nail  on  the  frost  of  the  pane,  over  and  over 
again.  When  Pierre  spoke  to  him  thus  he  scratched 
out  the  word  he  had  written,  with  what  seemed  un- 
necessary force.  But  in  one  corner  it  remained: 
"Mab—  " 

Pierre  added:  "That  is  what  they  say  at  Hum- 
phrey's ranch." 

"Who  says  that  at  Humphrey's? — Pierre,  you  lie!" 
was  the  sharp  and  threatening  reply.  The  significance 
of  this  last  statement  had  been  often  attested  on  the 
prairies  by  the  piercing  emphasis  of  a  six-chambered 
revolver.  It  was  evident  that  Young  Aleck  was  in 
earnest.  Pierre's  eyes  glowed  in  the  shadow,  but  he 
idly  replied: 

"I  do  not  remember  quite  who  said  it.  Well,  mon 
ami,  perhaps  I  lie;  perhaps.  Sometimes  we  dream 
things,  and  these  dreams  are  true.  You  call  it  a  lie — 
bien!  Sergeant  Fones,  he  dreams  perhaps  Old  Aleck 
sells  whisky  against  the  law  to  men  you  call  whisky 
runners,  sometimes  to  Indians  and  half-breeds — half- 
breeds  like  Pretty  Pierre.  That  was  a  dream  of  Ser- 
geant Fones;  but  you  see  he  believes  it  true.  It  is 
good  sport,  eh?  Will  you  not  take — what  is  it? — a 
silent  partner?  Yes;  a  silent  partner,  Old  Aleck. 
Pretty  Pierre  has  spare  time,  a  little,  to  make  money 
for  his  friends  and  for  himself,  eh?" 

When  did  not  Pierre  have  time  to  spare?  He  was 
a  gambler.  Unlike  the  majority  of  half-breeds,  he  had 
a  pronounced  French  manner,  nonchalant  and  debonair. 


6  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

The  Indian  in  him  gave  him  coolness  and  nerve.  His 
cheeks  had  a  tinge  of  delicate  red  under  their  white- 
ness, like  those  of  a  woman.  That  was  why  he  was 
called  Pretty  Pierre.  The  country  had,  however,  felt 
a  kind  of  weird  menace  in  the  name.  It  was  used  to 
snakes  whose  rattle  gave  notice  of  approach  or  signal 
of  danger.  But  Pretty  Pierre  was  like  the  death-adder, 
small  and  beautiful,  silent  and  deadly.  At  one  time 
he  had  made  a  secret  of  his  trade,  or  thought  he  was 
doing  so.  In  those  days  he  was  often  to  be  seen  at 
David  Humphrey's  home,  and  often  in  talk  with  Mab 
Humphrey;  but  it  was  there  one  night  that  the  man 
who  was  ha'sh  gave  him  his  true  character,  with  much 
candour  and  no  comment. 

Afterwards  Pierre  was  not  seen  at  Humphrey's  ranch. 
Men  prophesied  that  he  would  have  revenge  some  day 
on  Sergeant  Fones;  but  he  did  not  show  anything  on 
which  this  opinion  could  be  based.  He  took  no  um- 
brage at  being  called  Pretty  Pierre  the  gambler.  But 
for  all  that  he  was  possessed  of  a  devil. 

Young  Aleck  had  inherited  some  money  through  his 
dead  mother  from  his  grandfather,  a  Hudson's  Bay 
factor.  He  had  been  in  the  East  for  some  years,  and 
when  he  came  back  he  brought  his  " little  pile"  and  an 
impressionable  heart  with  him.  The  former  Pretty 
Pierre  and  his  friends  set  about  to  win;  the  latter, 
Mab  Humphrey  won  without  the  trying.  Yet  Mab 
gave  Young  Aleck  as  much  as  he  gave  her.  More. 
Because  her  love  sprang  from  a  simple,  earnest,  and 
uncontaminated  life.  Her  purity  and  affection  were 
being  played  against  Pierre's  designs  and  Young 
Aleck's  weakness.  With  Aleck  cards  and  liquor  went 
together.  Pierre  seldom  drank. 

But  what  of  Sergeant  Fones?    If  the  man  that  knew 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS   7 

him  best — the  Commandant — had  been  asked  for  his 
history,  the  reply  would  have  been:  "Five  years  in 
the  Service,  rigid  disciplinarian,  best  non-commissioned 
officer  on  the  Patrol  of  the  Cypress  Hills."  That  was 
all  the  Commandant  knew. 

A  soldier-policeman's  life  on  the  frontier  is  rough, 
solitary,  and  severe.  Active  duty  and  responsibility 
are  all  that  make  it  endurable.  To  few  is  it  fascinat- 
ing. A  free  and  thoughtful  nature  would,  however, 
find  much  in  it,  in  spite  of  great  hardships,  to  give  in- 
terest and  even  pleasure.  The  sense  of  breadth  and 
vastness,  and  the  inspiration  of  pure  air  could  be  a 
very  gospel  of  strength,  beauty,  and  courage,  to  such 
an  one — for  a  time.  But  was  Sergeant  Fones  such  an 
one?  The  Commandant's  scornful  reply  to  a  question 
of  the  kind  would  have  been:  "He  is  the  best  soldier 
on  the  Patrol." 

And  so  with  hard  gallops  here  and  there  after  the 
refugees  of  crime  or  misfortune,  or  both,  who  fled  be- 
fore them  like  deer  among  the  passes  of  the  hills,  and, 
like  deer  at  bay,  often  fought  like  demons  to  the  death; 
with  border  watchings,  and  protection  and  care  and 
vigilance  of  the  Indians;  with  hurried  marches  at  sun- 
rise, the  thermometer  at  fifty  degrees  below  zero  often 
in  winter,  and  open  camps  beneath  the  stars,  and  no 
camp  at  all,  as  often  as  not,  winter  and  summer;  with 
rough  barrack  fun  and  parade  and  drill  and  guard  of 
prisoners;  and  with  chances  now  and  then  to  pay  hom- 
age to  a  woman's  face, — the  Mounted  Force  grew  full 
of  the  Spirit  of  the  West  and  became  brown,  valiant, 
and  hardy,  with  wind  and  weather.  Perhaps  some  of 
them  longed  to  touch,  oftener  than  they  did,  the  hands 
of  children,  and  to  consider  more  the  faces  of  women, 
— for  hearts  are  hearts  even  under  a  belted  coat  of  red 


8  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

on  the  Fiftieth  Parallel, — but  men  of  nerve  do  not 
blazon  their  feelings. 

No  one  would  have  accused  Sergeant  Fones  of  hav- 
ing a  heart.  Men  of  keen  discernment  would  have 
seen  in  him  the  little  Bismarck  of  the  Mounted  Police. 
His  name  carried  farther  on  the  Cypress  Hills  Patrol 
than  any  other;  and  yet  his  officers  could  never  say 
that  he  exceeded  his  duty  or  enlarged  upon  the  orders 
he  received.  He  had  no  sympathy  with  crime.  Others 
of  the  force  might  wink  at  it;  but  his  mind  appeared 
to  sit  severely  upright  upon  the  cold  platform  of  Pen- 
alty, in  beholding  breaches  of  the  statutes.  He  would 
not  have  rained  upon  the  unjust  as  the  just  if  he  had 
had  the  directing  of  the  heavens.  As  Private  Gellatly 
put  it :  "  Sergeant  Fones  has  the  fear  o'  God  in  his  heart, 
and  the  law  of  the  land  across  his  saddle,  and  the  new- 
est breech-loading  at  that!"  He  was  part  of  the  great 
machine  of  Order,  the  servant  of  Justice,  the  sentinel 
in  the  vestibule  of  Martial  Law.  His  interpretation 
of  duty  worked  upward  as  downward.  Officers  and 
privates  were  acted  on  by  the  force  known  as  Sergeant 
Fones.  Some  people,  like  Old  Brown  Windsor,  spoke 
hardly  and  openly  of  this  force.  There  were  three  peo- 
ple who  never  did — Pretty  Pierre,  Young  Aleck,  and 
Mab  Humphrey.  Pierre  hated  him;  Young  Aleck  ad- 
mired in  him  a  quality  lying  dormant  in  himself — 
decision;  Mab  Humphrey  spoke  unkindly  of  no  one. 
Besides — but  no! 

What  was  Sergeant  Fones's  country?  No  one  knew. 
Where  had  he  come  from?  No  one  asked  him  more 
than  once.  He  could  talk  French  with  Pierre, — a  kind 
of  French  that  sometimes  made  the  undertone  of  red 
in  the  Frenchman's  cheeks  darker.  He  had  been  heard 
to  speak  German  to  a  German  prisoner,  and  once, 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS      9 

when  a  gang  of  Italians  were  making  trouble  on  a  line 
of  railway  under  construction,  he  arrested  the  leader, 
and,  in  a  few  swift,  sharp  words  in  the  language  of  the 
rioters,  settled  the  business.  He  had  no  accent  that 
betrayed  his  nationality. 

He  had  been  recommended  for  a  commission.  The 
officer  in  command  had  hinted  that  the  Sergeant  might 
get  a  Christmas  present.  The  officer  had  further  said : 
"And  if  it  was  something  that  both  you  and  the  Patrol 
would  be  the  better  for,  you  couldn't  object,  Ser- 
geant." But  the  Sergeant  only  saluted,  looking  stead- 
ily into  the  eyes  of  the  officer.  That  was  his  reply. 

Private  Gellatly,  standing  without,  heard  Sergeant 
Fones  say,  as  he  passed  into  the  open  air,  and  slowly 
bared  his  forehead  to  the  winter  sun: 

"Exactly." 

And  Private  Gellatly  cried,  with  revolt  in  his  voice, 
"Divils  me  own,  the  word  that  a't  to  have  been  full  o' 
joy  was  like  the  clip  of  a  rifle-breech." 

Justice  in  a  new  country  is  administered  with 
promptitude  and  vigour,  or  else  not  administered  at 
all.  Where  an  officer  of  the  Mounted  Police-Soldiery 
has  all  the  powers  of  a  magistrate,  the  law's  delay  and 
the  insolence  of  office  have  little  space  in  which  to 
work.  One  of  the  commonest  slips  of  virtue  in  the 
Canadian  West  was  selling  whisky  contrary  to  the 
law  of  prohibition  which  prevailed.  Whisky  runners 
were  land  smugglers.  Old  Brown  Windsor  had,  some- 
how, got  the  reputation  of  being  connected  with  the 
whisky  runners;  not  a  very  respectable  business, 
and  thought  to  be  dangerous.  Whisky  runners  were 
inclined  to  resent  intrusion  on  their  privacy  with  a 
touch  of  that  biting  inhospitableness  which  a  moon- 
lighter of  Kentucky  uses  toward  an  inquisitive,  un- 


10  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

sympathetic  marshal.  On  the  Cypress  Hills  Patrol, 
however,  the  erring  servants  of  Bacchus  were  having  a 
hard  time  of  it.  Vigilance  never  slept  there  in  the 
days  of  which  these  lines  bear  record.  Old  Brown 
Windsor  had,  in  words,  freely  espoused  the  cause  of 
the  sinful.  To  the  careless  spectator  it  seemed  a 
charitable  siding  with  the  suffering;  a  proof  that  the 
old  man's  heart  was  not  so  cold  as  his  hands.  Ser- 
geant Fones  thought  differently,  and  his  mission  had 
just  been  to  warn  the  store-keeper  that  there  was 
menacing  evidence  gathering  against  him,  and  that 
his  friendship  with  Golden  Feather,  the  Indian  Chief, 
had  better  cease  at  once.  Sergeant  Fones  had  a  way 
of  putting  things.  Old  Brown  Windsor  endeavoured 
for  a  moment  to  be  sarcastic.  This  was  the  brief 
dialogue  in  the  domain  of  sarcasm: 

"I  s'pose  you  just  lit  round  in  a  friendly  sort  of 
way,  hopin'  that  I'd  kenoodle  with  you  later." 

"Exactly." 

There  was  an  unpleasant  click  to  the  word.  The 
old  man's  hands  got  colder.  He  had  nothing  more  to 
say. 

Before  leaving,  the  Sergeant  said  something  quietly 
and  quickly  to  Young  Aleck.  Pierre  observed,  but 
could  not  hear.  Young  Aleck  was  uneasy;  Pierre 
was  perplexed.  The  Sergeant  turned  at  the  door,  and 
said  in  French:  "What  are  your  chances  for  a  Merry 
Christmas  at  Pardon's  Drive,  Pretty  Pierre?"  Pierre 
answered  nothing.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  as 
the  door  closed,  muttered,  "II  est  le  diable."  And  he 
meant  it.  What  should  Sergeant  Fones  know  of  that 
intended  meeting  at  Pardon's  Drive  on  Christmas  Day? 
And  if  he  knew,  what  then?  It  was  not  against  the 
law  to  play  euchre.  Still  it  perplexed  Pierre.  Before 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS    11 

the  Windsors,  father  and  son,  however,  he  was,  as  we 
have  seen,  playfully  cool. 

After  quitting  Old  Brown  Windsor's  store,  Sergeant 
Fones  urged  his  stout  broncho  to  a  quicker  pace  than 
usual.  The  broncho  was,  like  himself,  wasteful  of 
neither  action  nor  affection.  The  Sergeant  had  caught 
him  wild  and  independent,  had  brought  him  in,  broken 
him,  and  taught  him  obedience.  They  understood 
each  other;  perhaps  they  loved  each  other.  But  about 
that  even  Private  Gellatly  had  views  in  common  with 
the  general  sentiment  as  to  the  character  of  Sergeant 
Fones.  The  private  remarked  once  on  this  point: 
"Sarpints  alive!  the  heels  of  the  one  and  the  law  of  the 
other  is  the  love  of  them.  They'll  weather  together 
like  the  Divil  and  Death." 

The  Sergeant  was  brooding;  that  was  not  like  him. 
He  was  hesitating;  that  was  less  like  him.  He  turned 
his  broncho  round  as  if  to  cross  the  Big  Divide  and  to 
go  back  to  Windsor's  store;  but  he  changed  his  mind 
again,  and  rode  on  toward  David  Humphrey's  ranch. 
He  sat  as  if  he  had  been  born  in  the  saddle.  His  was 
a  face  for  the  artist,  strong  and  clear,  and  having  a 
dominant  expression  of  force.  The  eyes  were  deep- 
set  and  watchful.  A  kind  of  disdain  might  be  traced 
in  the  curve  of  the  short  upper  lip,  to  which  the  mous- 
tache was  clipped  close — a  good  fit,  like  his  coat. 
The  disdain  was  more  marked  this  morning. 

The  first  part  of  his  ride  had  been  seen  by  Young 
Aleck,  the  second  part  by  Mab  Humphrey.  Her  first 
thought  on  seeing  him  was  one  of  apprehension  for 
Young  Aleck  and  those  of  Young  Aleck's  name.  She 
knew  that  people  spoke  of  her  lover  as  a  ne'er-do-weel; 
and  that  they  associated  his  name  freely  with  that  of 
Pretty  Pierre  and  his  gang.  She  had  a  dread  of  Pierre, 


12  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

and,  only  the  night  before,  she  had  determined  to  make 
one  last  great  effort  to  save  Aleck,  and  if  he  would  not 
be  saved — strange  that,  thinking  it  all  over  again,  as 
she  watched  the  figure  on  horseback  coming  nearer, 
her  mind  should  swerve  to  what  she  had  heard  of  Ser- 
geant Fones's  expected  promotion.  Then  she  fell  to 
wondering  if  anyone  had.  ever  given  him  a  real  Christ- 
mas present;  if  he  had  any  friends  at  all;  if  life  meant 
anything  more  to  him  than  carrying  the  law  of  the  land 
across  his  saddle.  Again  he  suddenly  came  to  her  in 
a  new  thought,  free  from  apprehension,  and  as  the 
champion  of  her  cause  to  defeat  the  half-breed  and  his 
gang,  and  save  Aleck  from  present  danger  or  future 
perils. 

She  was  such  a  woman  as  prairies  nurture;  in  spirit 
broad  and  thoughtful  and  full  of  energy;  not  so  deep 
as  the  mountain  woman,  not  so  imaginative,  but  with 
more  persistency,  more  daring.  Youth  to  her  was  a 
warmth,  a  glory.  She  hated  excess  and  lawlessness, 
but  she  could  understand  it.  She  felt  sometimes  as  if 
she  must  go  far  away  into  the  unpeopled  spaces,  and 
shriek  out  her  soul  to  the  stars  from  the  fulness  of  too 
much  life.  She  supposed  men  had  feelings  of  that 
kind  too,  but  that  they  fell  to  playing  cards  and  drink- 
ing instead  of  crying  to  the  stars.  Still,  she  preferred 
her  way. 

Once,  Sergeant  Fones,  on  leaving  the  house,  said 
grimly  after  his  fashion:  "Not  Mab  but  Ariadne- 
excuse  a  soldier's  bluntness.  .  .  .  Good-bye!"  and  with 
a  brusque  salute  he  had  ridden  away.  What  he  meant 
she  did  not  know  and  could  not  ask.  The  thought  in- 
stantly came  to  her  mind:  Not  Sergeant  Fones;  but — 
who?  She  wondered  if  Ariadne  was  born  on  the  prairie. 
What  knew  she  of  the  girl  who  helped  Theseus,  her 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS    13 

lover,  to  slay  the  Minotaur?  What  guessed  she  of  the 
Slopes  of  Naxos?  How  old  was  Ariadne?  Twenty? — 
For  that  was  Mab's  age.  Was  Ariadne  beautiful? — 
She  ran  her  fingers  loosely  through  her  short  brown 
hair,  waving  softly  about  her  Greek-shaped  head,  and 
reasoned  that  Ariadne  must  have  been  presentable,  or 
Sergeant  Fones  would  not  have  made  the  comparison. 
She  hoped  Ariadne  could  ride  well,  for  she  could. 

But  how  white  the  world  looked  this  morning,  and 
how  proud  and  brilliant  the  sky!  Nothing  in  the 
plane  of  vision  but  waves  of  snow  stretching  to  the 
Cypress  Hills;  far  to  the  left  a  solitary  house,  with 
its  tin  roof  flashing  back  the  sun,  and  to  the  right  the 
Big  Divide.  It  was  an  old-fashioned  winter,  not  one 
in  which  bare  ground  and  sharp  winds  make  life  out- 
doors inhospitable.  Snow  is  hospitable — clean,  im- 
pacted snow;  restful  and  silent.  But  there  was  one 
spot  in  the  area  of  white,  on  which  Mab's  eyes  were 
fixed  now,  with  something  different  in  them  from 
what  had  been  there.  Again  it  was  a  memory  with 
which  Sergeant  Fones  was  associated.  One  day  in 
the  summer  just  past  she  had  watched  him  and  his 
company  put  away  to  rest  under  the  cool  sod,  where 
many  another  lay  in  silent  company,  a  prairie  wanderer, 
some  outcast  from  a  better  life  gone  by.  Afterwards, 
in  her  home,  she  saw  the  Sergeant  stand  at  the  window, 
looking  out  towards  the  spot  where  the  waves  in  the  sea 
of  grass  were  more  regular  and  greener  than  elsewhere, 
and  were  surmounted  by  a  high  cross.  She  said  to 
him — for  she  of  all  was  never  shy  of  his  stern  ways: 

"Why  is  the  grass  always  greenest  there,  Sergeant 
Fones?" 

He  knew  what  she  meant,  and  slowly  said:    "It  is 
the  Barracks  of  the  Free." 


14  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

She  had  no  views  of  life  save  those  of  duty  and 
work  and  natural  joy  and  loving  a  ne'er-do-weel,  and 
she  said:  "I  do  not  understand  that." 

And  the  Sergeant  replied:  "Free  among  the  Dead 
like  unto  them  that  are  wounded  and  lie  in  the  grave,  who 
are  out  of  remembrance.' ' 

But  Mab  said  again:  "I  do  not  understand  that 
either." 

The  Sergeant  did  not  at  once  reply.  He  stepped 
to  the  door  and  gave  a  short  command  to  some  one 
without,  and  in  a  moment  his  company  was  mounted 
in  line;  handsome,  dashing  fellows;  one  the  son  of  an 
English  nobleman,  one  the  brother  of  an  eminent 
Canadian  politician,  one  related  to  a  celebrated  English 
dramatist.  He  ran  his  eye  along  the  line,  then  turned 
to  Mab,  raised  his  cap  with  machine-like  precision,  and 
said:  "No,  I  suppose  you  do  not  understand  that. 
Keep  Aleck  Windsor  from  Pretty  Pierre  and  his  gang. 
Good-bye." 

Then  he  mounted  and  rode  away.  Every  other 
man  in  the  company  looked  back  to  where  the  girl 
stood  in  the  doorway;  he  did  not.  Private  Gellatly 
said,  with  a  shake  of  the  head,  as  she  was  lost  to  view: 
"Devils  bestir  me,  what  a  widdy  she'll  make!"  It 
was  understood  that  Aleck  Windsor  and  Mab  Hum- 
phrey were  to  be  married  on  the  coming  New  Year's 
Day.  What  connection  was  there  between  the  words 
of  Sergeant  Fones  and  those  of  Private  Gellatly? 
None,  perhaps. 

Mab  thought  upon  that  day  as  she  looked  out,  this 
December  morning,  and  saw  Sergeant  Fones  dismount- 
ing at  the  door.  David  Humphrey,  who  was  outside, 
offered  to  put  up  the  Sergeant's  horse;  but  he  said: 
"No,  if  you'll  hold  him  just  a  moment,  Mr.  Humphrey, 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS    15 

I'll  ask  for  a  drink  of  something  warm,  and  move  on. 
Miss  Humphrey  is  inside,  I  suppose?" 

"She'll  give  you  a  drink  of  the  best  to  be  had  on. 
your  patrol,  Sergeant,"  was  the  laughing  reply. 

"Thanks  for  that,  but  tea  or  coffee  is  good  enough 
for  me,"  said  the  Sergeant.  Entering,  the  coffee  was 
soon  in  the  hand  of  the  hardy  soldier.  Once  he  paused 
in  his  drinking  and  scanned  Mab's  face  closely.  Most 
people  would  have  said  the  Sergeant  had  an  affair  of 
the  law  in  hand,  and  was  searching  the  face  of  a  crim- 
inal; but  most  people  are  not  good  at  interpretation. 
Mab  was  speaking  to  the  chore-girl  at  the  same  time 
and  did  not  see  the  look.  If  she  could  have  defined 
her  thoughts  when  she,  in  turn,  glanced  into  the  Ser- 
geant's face,  a  moment  afterwards,  she  would  have 
said,  "Austerity  fills  this  man.  Isolation  marks  him 
for  its  own."  In  the  eyes  were  only  purpose,  decision, 
and  command.  Was  that  the  look  that  had  been  fixed 
upon  her  face  a  moment  ago?  It  must  have  been. 
His  features  had  not  changed  a  breath.  Mab  began 
their  talk. 

"They  say  you  are  to  get  a  Christmas  present  of 
promotion,  Sergeant  Fones." 

"I  have  not  seen  it  gazetted,"  he  answered  enig- 
matically. 

"You  and  your  friends  will  be  glad  of  it." 

"I  like  the  service." 

"You  will  have  more  freedom  with  a  commission." 

He  made  no  reply,  but  rose  and  walked  to  the  win- 
dow, and  looked  out  across  the  snow,  drawing  on  his 
gauntlets  as  he  did  so. 

She  saw  that  he  was  looking  where  the  grass  in 
summer  was  the  greenest! 

He  turned  and  said: 


16  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"I  am  going  to  barracks  now.  I  suppose  Young 
Aleck  will  be  in  quarters  here  on  Christmas  Day,  Miss 
Mab?" 

"I  think  so,"  and  she  blushed. 

"Did  he  say  he  would  be  here?" 

"Yes." 

"Exactly." 

He  looked  toward  the  coffee.    Then: 

"Thank  you.  .  .  .  Good-bye." 

"Sergeant?" 

"Miss  Humphrey!" 

"Will  you  not  come  to  us  on  Christmas  Day?" 

His  eyelids  closed  swiftly  and  opened  again. 

"I  shall  be  on  duty." 

"And  promoted?" 

"Perhaps." 

"And  merry  and  happy?" — she  smiled  to  herself  to 
think  of  Sergeant  Fones  being  merry  and  happy. 

"Exactly." 

The  word  suited  him. 

He  paused  a  moment  with  his  fingers  on  the  latch, 
and  turned  round  as  if  to  speak;  pulled  off  his  gaunt- 
let, and  then  as  quickly  put  it  on  again.  Had  he  meant 
to  offer  his  hand  in  good-bye?  He  had  never  been 
seen  to  take  the  hand  of  anyone  except  with  the 
might  of  the  law  visible  in  steel. 

He  opened  the  door  with  the  right  hand,  but  turned 
round  as  he  stepped  out,  so  that  the  left  held  it  while  he 
faced  the  warmth  of  the  room  and  the  face  of  the  girl. 

The  door  closed. 

Mounted,  and  having  said  good-bye  to  Mr.  Hum- 
phrey, he  turned  towards  the  house,  raised  his  cap 
with  soldierly  brusqueness,  and  rode  away  in  the 
direction  of  the  barracks. 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS    17 

The  girl  did  not  watch  him.  She  was  thinking  of 
Young  Aleck,  and  of  Christmas  Day,  now  near.  The 
Sergeant  did  not  look  back. 

Meantime  the  party  at  Windsor's  store  was  broken 
up.  Pretty  Pierre  and  Young  Aleck  had  talked  to- 
gether, and  the  old  man  had  heard  his  son  say: 

"  Remember,  Pierre,  it  is  for  the  last  time." 

Then  they  talked  after  this  fashion: 

"Ah,  I  know,  mon  ami;  for  the  last  time!  Eh, 
bien,  you  will  spend  Christmas  Day  with  us  too — 
no?  You  surely  will  not  leave  us  on  the  day  of  good 
fortune?  Where  better  can  you  take  your  pleasure — 
for  the  last  tune?  One  day  is  not  enough  for  farewell. 
Two,  three;  that  is  the  magic  number.  You  will,  eh? 
no?  Well,  well,  you  will  come  to-morrow — and — eh, 
mon  ami,  where  do  you  go  the  next  day?  Oh,  pardon, 
I  forgot,  you  spend  the  Christmas  Day — I  know. 
And  the  day  of  the  New  Year?  Ah,  Young  Aleck, 
that  is  what  they  say — the  devil  for  the  devil's  luck. 
So." 

"Stop  that,  Pierre."  There  was  fierceness  in  the 
tone.  "I  spend  the  Christmas  Day  where  you  don't, 
and  as  I  like,  and  the  rest  doesn't  concern  you.  I 
drink  with  you,  I  play  with  you — bien!  As  you  say 
yourself,  bien,  isn't  that  enough?" 

"Pardon!  We  will  not  quarrel.  No;  we  spend  not 
the  Christmas  Day  after  the  same  fashion,  quite. 
Then,  to-morrow  at  Pardon's  Drive!  Adieu!" 

Pretty  Pierre  went  out  of  one  door,  a  malediction 
between  his  white  teeth,  and  Aleck  went  out  of  an- 
other door  with  a  malediction  upon  his  gloomy  lips. 
But  both  maledictions  were  levelled  at  the  same  per- 
son. Poor  Aleck. 

"  Poor  Aleck ! "    That  is  the  way  we  sometimes  think 


18  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

of  a  good  nature  gone  awry;  one  that  has  learned  to 
say  cruel  maledictions  to  itself,  and  against  which 
demons  hurl  then-  deadly  maledictions  too.  Alas,  for 
the  ne'er-do-weel! 

That  night  a  stalwart  figure  passed  from  David 
Humphrey's  door,  carrying  with  him  the  warm  atmos- 
phere of  a  good  woman's  love.  The  chilly  outer  air  of 
the  world  seemed  not  to  touch  him,  Love's  curtains 
were  drawn  so  close.  Had  one  stood  within  "the 
Hunter's  Room,"  as  it  was  called,  a  little  while  before, 
one  would  have  seen  a  man's  head  bowed  before  a 
woman,  and  her  hand  smoothing  back  the  hair  from 
the  handsome  brow  where  dissipation  had  drawn  some 
deep  lines.  Presently  the  hand  raised  the  head  until 
the  eyes  of  the  woman  looked  full  into  the  eyes  of  the 
man. 

"You  will  not  go  to  Pardon's  Drive  again,  will  you, 
Aleck?" 

"Never  again  after  Christmas  Day,  Mab.  But  I 
must  go  to-morrow.  I  have  given  my  word." 

"I  know.  To  meet  Pretty  Pierre  and  all  the  rest, 
and  for  what?  Oh,  Aleck,  isn't  the  suspicion  about 
your  father  enough,  but  you  must  put  this  on  me  as 
well?" 

"My  father  must  suffer  for  his  wrong-doing  if  he 
does  wrong,  and  I  for  mine." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  He  bowed  his  head 
again. 

"And  I  have  done  wrong  to  us  both.  Forgive  me, 
Mab." 

She  leaned  over  and  caressed  his  hair.  "I  forgive 
you,  Aleck." 

A  thousand  new  thoughts  were  thrilling  through 
him.  Yet  this  man  had  given  his  word  to  do  that  for 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS    19 

which  he  must  ask  forgiveness  of  the  woman  he  loved. 
But  to  Pretty  Pierre,  forgiven  or  unforgiven,  he 
would  keep  his  word.  She  understood  it  better  than 
most  of  those  who  read  this  brief  record  can.  Every 
sphere  has  its  code  of  honour  and  duty  peculiar  to 
itself. 

"You  will  come  to  me  on  Christmas  morning, 
Aleck?" 

"I  will  come  on  Christmas  morning." 

"And  no  more  after  that  of  Pretty  Pierre?" 

"And  no  more  of  Pretty  Pierre." 

She  trusted  him;  but  neither  could  reckon  with  un- 
known forces. 

Sergeant  Fones,  sitting  in  the  barracks  in  talk  with 
Private  Gellatly,  said  at  that  moment  in  a  swift  silence, 
"Exactly." 

Pretty  Pierre,  at  Pardon's  Drive,  drinking  a  glass  of 
brandy  at  that  moment,  said  to  the  ceiling: 

"No  more  of  Pretty  Pierre  after  to-morrow  night, 
monsieur!  Bienl  If  it  is  for  the  last  tune,  then  it  is 
for  the  last  time.  So  ...  so." 

He  smiled.    His  teeth  were  amazingly  white. 

The  stalwart  figure  strode  on  under  the  stars,  the 
white  night  a  lens  for  visions  of  days  of  rejoicing  to 
come.  All  evil  was  far  from  him.  The  dolorous  tide 
rolled  back  in  this  hour  from  his  life,  and  he  revelled 
in  the  light  of  a  new  day. 

"When  I've  played  my  last  card  to-morrow  night 
with  Pretty  Pierre,  I'll  begin  the  world  again,"  he 
whispered. 

And  Sergeant  Fones  in  the  barracks  said  just  then, 
in  response  to  a  further  remark  of  Private  Gellatly, — 
"Exactly." 

Young  Aleck  fell  to  singing: 


20  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"  Out  from  your  vineland  come 

Into  the  prairies  wild; 
Here  will  we  make  our  home, — 

Father,  mother,  and  child; 
Come,  my  love,  to  our  home, — 

Father,  mother,  and  child, 

Father,  mother,  and — " 

He  fell  to  thinking  again — "and  child — and  child," 
— it  was  in  his  ears  and  in  his  heart. 

But  Pretty  Pierre  was  singing  softly  to  himself  in 
the  room  at  Pardon's  Drive: 

"Three  good  friends  with  the  wine  at  night — 

Vive  la  compagnie! 
Two  good  friends  when  the  sun  grows  bright — 

Vive  la  compagnie! 

Vive  la,  vive  la,  vive  ramour! 

Vive  la,  vive  la,  vive  1'amour! 
Three  good  friends,  two  good  friends — 

Vive  la  compagnie!" 

What  did  it  mean? 

Private  Gellatly  was  cousin  to  Idaho  Jack,  and 
Idaho  Jack  disliked  Pretty  Pierre,  though  he  had  been 
one  of  the  gang.  The  cousins  had  seen  each  other 
lately,  and  Private  Gellatly  had  had  a  talk  with  the 
man  who  was  ha'sh.  It  may  be  that  others  besides 
Pierre  had  an  idea  of  what  it  meant. 

In  the  house  at  Pardon's  Drive  the  next  night  sat 
eight  men,  of  whom  three  were  Pretty  Pierre,  Young 
Aleck,  and  Idaho  Jack.  Young  Aleck's  face  was 
flushed  with  bad  liquor  and  the  worse  excitement  of 
play.  This  was  one  of  the  unreckoned  forces.  Was 
this  the  man  that  sang  the  tender  song  under  the  stars 
last  night?  Pretty  Pierre's  face  was  less  pretty  than 
usual;  the  cheeks  were  pallid,  the  eyes  were  hard  and 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS    21 

cold.  Once  he  looked  at  his  partner  as  if  to  say, 
"Not  yet."  Idaho  Jack  saw  the  look;  he  glanced  at 
his  watch;  it  was  eleven  o'clock.  At  that  moment 
the  door  opened,  and  Sergeant  Fones  entered.  All 
started  to  their  feet,  most  with  curses  on  their  lips; 
but  Sergeant  Fones  never  seemed  to  hear  anything  that 
could  make  a  feature  of  his  face  alter.  Pierre's  hand 
was  on  his  hip,  as  if  feeling  for  something.  Sergeant 
Fones  saw  that;  but  he  walked  to  where  Aleck  stood, 
with  his  unplayed  cards  still  in  his  hand,  and,  laying  a 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  said,  "Come  with  me." 

"Why  should  I  go  with  you?" — this  with  a  drunken 
man's  bravado. 

"You  are  my  prisoner." 

Pierre  stepped  forward.  "What  is  his  crime?"  he 
exclaimed. 

"How  does  that  concern  you,  Pretty  Pierre?" 

"He  is  my  friend." 

"Is  he  your  friend,  Aleck?" 

What  was  there  in  the  eyes  of  Sergeant  Fones  that 
forced  the  reply, — "To-night,  yes;  to-morrow,  no." 

"Exactly.     It  is  near  to-morrow;  come." 

Aleck  was  led  towards  the  door.  Once  more  Pierre's 
hand  went  to  his  hip;  but  he  was  looking  at  the  pris- 
oner, not  at  the  Sergeant.  The  Sergeant  saw,  and  his 
fingers  were  at  his  belt.  He  opened  the  door.  Aleck 
passed  out.  He  followed.  Two  horses  were  tied  to  a 
post.  With  difficulty  Aleck  was  mounted.  Once  on 
the  way  his  brain  began  slowly  to  clear,  but  he  grew 
painfully  cold.  It  was  a  bitter  night.  How  bitter  it 
might  have  been  for  the  ne'er-do-weel  let  the  words  of 
Idaho  Jack,  spoken  in  a  long  hour's  talk  next  day  with 
Old  Brown  Windsor,  show.  "Pretty  Pierre,  after  the 
two  were  gone,  said,  with  a  shiver  of  curses, — 'Another 


22  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

hour  and  it  would  have  been  done,  and  no  one  to 
blame.  He  was  ready  for  trouble.  His  money  was 
nearly  finished.  A  little  quarrel  easily  made,  the  door 
would  open,  and  he  would  pass  out.  His  horse  would 
be  gone,  he  could  not  come  back;  he  would  walk. 
The  air  is  cold,  quite,  quite  cold;  and  the  snow  is  a 
soft  bed.  He  would  sleep  well  and  sound,  having  seen 
Pretty  Pierre  for  the  last  tune.  And  now — '  The  rest 
was  French  and  furtive." 

From  that  hour  Idaho  Jack  and  Pretty  Pierre  parted 
company. 

Riding  from  Pardon's  Drive,  Young  Aleck  noticed 
at  last  that  they  were  not  going  towards  the  barracks. 

He  said:  "Why  do  you  arrest  me?" 

The  Sergeant  replied:  "You  will  know  that  soon 
enough.  You  are  now  going  to  your  own  home.  To- 
morrow you  will  keep  your  word  and  go  to  David 
Humphrey's  place;  the  next  day  I  will  come  for  you. 
Which  do  you  choose:  to  ride  with  me  to-night  to  the 
barracks  and  know  why  you  are  arrested,  or  go,  un- 
knowing, as  I  bid  you,  and  keep  your  word  with  the 
girl?" 

Through  Aleck's  fevered  brain,  there  ran  the  words 
of  the  song  he  sang  before — 

"  Out  from  your  vineland  come 

Into  the  prairies  wild; 
Here  will  we  make  our  home, — 
Father,  mother,  and  child." 

He  could  have  but  one  answer. 

At  the  door  of  his  home  the  Sergeant  left  him  with 
the  words,  "Remember  you  are  on  parole." 

Aleck  noticed  as  the  Sergeant  rode  away  that  the 
face  of  the  sky  had  changed,  and  slight  gusts  of  wind 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS    23 

had  come  up.    At  any  other  time  his  mind  would  have 
dwelt  upon  the  fact.     It  did  not  do  so  now. 

Christmas  Day  came.  People  said  that  the  fiercest 
night,  since  the  blizzard  day  of  1863,  had  been  passed. 
But  the  morning  was  clear  and  beautiful.  The  sun 
came  up  like  a  great  flower  expanding.  First  the  yel- 
low, then  the  purple,  then  the  red,  and  then  a  mighty 
shield  of  roses.  The  world  was  a  blanket  of  drift,  and 
down,  and  glistening  silver. 

Mab  Humphrey  greeted  her  lover  with  such  a  smile 
as  only  springs  to  a  thankful  woman's  lips.  He  had 
given  his  word  and  had  kept  it;  and  the  path  of  the 
future  seemed  surer. 

He  was  a  prisoner  on  parole;  still  that  did  not  de- 
press him.  Plans  for  coming  days  were  talked  of,  and 
the  laughter  of  many  voices  filled  the  house.  The 
ne'er-do-weel  was  clothed  and  in  his  right  mind.  In 
the  Hunter's  Room  the  noblest  trophy  was  the  heart 
of  a  repentant  prodigal. 

In  the  barracks  that  morning  a  gazetted  notice  was 
posted,  announcing,  with  such  technical  language  as 
is  the  custom,  that  Sergeant  Fones  was  promoted  to 
be  a  lieutenant  in  the  Mounted  Police  Force  of  the 
North  West  Territory.  When  the  officer  in  command 
sent  for  him  he  could  not  be  found.  But  he  was 
found  that  morning;  and  when  Private  Gellatly,  with 
a  warm  hand,  touching  the  glove  of  "iron  and  ice"- 
that,  indeed,  now  said:  "Sergeant  Fones,  you  are 
promoted,  God  help  you!"  he  gave  no  sign.  Motion- 
less, stern,  erect,  he  sat  there  upon  his  horse,  beside  a 
stunted  larch  tree.  The  broncho  seemed  to  under- 
stand, for  he  did  not  stir,  and  had  not  done  so  for  hours; 
— they  could  tell  that.  The  bridle  rein  was  still  in  the 
frigid  fingers,  and  a  smile  was  upon  the  face. 


24  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

A  smile  upon  the  face  of  Sergeant  Fones! 

Perhaps  he  smiled  that  he  was  going  to  the  Barracks 
of  the  Free — 

"Free  among  the  Dead  like  unto  them  that  are  wounded 
and  lie  in  the  grave,  that  are  out  of  remembrance" 

In  the  wild  night  he  had  lost  his  way,  though  but  a 
few  miles  from  the  barracks. 

He  had  done  his  duty  rigidly  in  that  sphere  of  life 
where  he  had  lived  so  much  alone  among  his  many 
comrades.  Had  he  exceeded  his  duty  once  in  arrest- 
ing Young  Aleck? 

When,  the  next  day,  Sergeant  Fones  lay  in  the  bar- 
racks, over  him  the  flag  for  which  he  had  sworn  to  do 
honest  service,  and  his  promotion  papers  in  his  quiet 
hand,  the  two  who  loved  each  other  stood  beside  him 
for  many  a  throbbing  minute.  And  one  said  to  her- 
self, silently:  "I  felt  sometimes" — but  no  more  words 
did  she  say  even  to  herself. 

Old  Aleck  came  in,  and  walked  to  where  the  Ser- 
geant slept,  wrapped  close  in  that  white  frosted  cover- 
let which  man  wears  but  once.  He  stood  for  a  moment 
silent,  his  fingers  numbly  clasped. 

Private  Gellatly  spoke  softly:  "Angels  betide  me, 
it's  little  we  knew  the  great  of  him  till  he  wintaway; 
the  pride,  and  the  law — and  the  love  of  him." 

In  the  tragedy  that  faced  them  this  Christmas  morn- 
ing one  at  least  had  seen  "the  love  of  him."  Perhaps 
the  broncho  had  known  it  before. 

Old  Aleck  laid  a  palm  upon  the  hand  he  had  never 
touched  when  it  had  life.  "He's — too — ha'sh,"  he 
said  slowly. 

Private  Gellatly  looked  up  wonderingly. 

But  the  old  man's  eyes  were  wet. 


GOD'S  GAEKISON 


GOD'S  GARRISON 

TWENTY  years  ago  there  was  trouble  at  Fort  o'  God. 
"Out  of  this  place  we  get  betwixt  the  suns,"  said 
Gyng  the  Factor.  "No  help  that  falls  abaft  to- 
morrow could  save  us.  Food  dwindles,  and  ammuni- 
tion's nearly  gone,  and  they'll  have  the  cold  steel  in 
our  scalp-locks  if  we  stay.  We'll  creep  along  the 
Devil's  Causeway,  then  through  the  Red  Horn  Woods, 
and  so  across  the  plains  to  Rupert  House.  Whip  in 
the  dogs,  Baptiste,  and  be  ready  all  of  you  at  mid- 
night." 

"And  Grah  the  Idiot — what  of  him?"  asked  Pretty 
Pierre. 

"He'll  have  to  take  his  chance.  If  he  can  travel 
with  us,  so  much  the  better  for  him";  and  the  Factor 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"If  not,  so  much  the  worse,  eh?"  returned  Pretty 
Pierre. 

"Work  the  sum  out  to  suit  yourself.  We've  got 
our  necks  to  save.  God'll  have  to  help  the  Idiot  if 
we  can't." 

"You  hear,  Grah  Hamon,  Idiot,"  said  Pierre  an 
hour  afterwards,  "we're  going  to  leave  Fort  o'  God  and 
make  for  Rupert  House.  You've  a  dragging  leg, 
you're  gone  in  the  savvey,  you  have  to  balance  your- 
self with  your  hands  as  you  waddle  along,  and  you 
slobber  when  you  talk;  but  you've  got  to  cut  away 
with  us  quick  across  the  Beaver  Plains,  and  Christ'll 
have  to  help  you  if  we  can't.  That's  what  the  Factor 
says,  and  that's  how  the  case  stands,  Idiot — bienf" 

27 


28  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"Grab  want  pipe — bubble — bubble — wind  blow/' 
muttered  the  daft  one. 

Pretty  Pierre  bent  over  and  said  slowly:  "If  you 
stay  here,  Grah,  the  Indian  get  your  scalp;  if  you  go, 
the  snow  is  deep  and  the  frost  is  like  a  badger's  tooth, 
and  you  can't  be  carried." 

"Oh,  Oh! — my  mother  dead — poor  Annie — by  God, 
Grah  want  pipe — poor  Grah  sleep  in  snow — bubble, 
bubble — Oh,  Oh! — the  long  wind,  fly  away." 

Pretty  Pierre  watched  the  great  head  of  the  Idiot 
as  it  swung  heavily  on  his  shoulders,  and  then  said: 
"Mais,  like  that,  so!"  and  turned  away. 

When  the  party  were  about  to  sally  forth  on  their 
perilous  path  to  safety,  Gyng  stood  and  cried  angrily: 
"Well,  why  hasn't  some  one  bundled  up  that  moth- 
eaten  Caliban?  Curse  it  all,  must  I  do  everything 
myself?" 

"But  you  see,"  said  Pierre,  "the  Caliban  stays  at 
Fort  o'  God." 

"You've  got  a  Christian  heart  in  you,  so  help  me, 
Heaven!"  replied  the  other.  "No,  sir,  we  give  him  a 
chance, — and  his  Maker  too  for  that  matter,  to  show 
what  He's  willing  to  do  for  His  misfits." 

Pretty  Pierre  rejoined,  "Well,  I  have  thought.  The 
game  is  all  against  Grah  if  he  go;  but  there  are  two 
who  stay  at  Fort  o'  God." 

And  that  is  how,  when  the  Factor  and  his  half- 
breeds  and  trappers  stole  away  in  silence  towards  the 
Devil's  Causeway,  Pierre  and  the  Idiot  remained  be- 
hind. And  that  is  why  the  flag  of  the  H.  B.  C.  still 
flew  above  Fort  o'  God  in  the  New  Year's  sun  just 
twenty  years  ago  to-day. 

The  Hudson's  Bay  Company  had  never  done  a 
worse  day's  work  than  when  they  promoted  Gyng  to 


GOD'S  GARRISON  29 

be  chief  factor.  He  loathed  the  heathen  and  he  showed 
his  loathing.  He  had  a  heart  harder  than  iron,  a 
speech  that  bruised  worse  than  the  hoof  of  an  angry 
moose.  And  when  at  last  he  drove  away  a  band  of 
wandering  Sioux,  foodless,  from  the  stores,  siege  and 
ambush  took  the  place  of  prayer,  and  a  nasty  portion 
fell  to  Fort  o'  God.  For  the  Indians  found  a  great 
cache  of  buffalo  meat,  and,  having  sent  the  women  and 
children  south  with  the  old  men,  gave  constant  and 
biting  assurances  to  Gyng  that  the  heathen  hath  his 
hour,  even  though  he  be  a  dog  which  is  refused  those 
scraps  from  the  white  man's  table  which  give  life  in 
the  hour  of  need.  Besides  all  else,  there  was  in  the 
Fort  the  thing  which  the  gods  made  last  to  humble 
the  pride  of  men — there  was  rum. 

And  the  morning  after  Gyng  and  his  men  had  de- 
parted, because  it  was  a  day  when  frost  was  master  of 
the  sun,  and  men  grew  wild  for  action,  since  to  stand 
still  was  to  face  indignant  Death,  they,  who  camped 
without,  prepared  to  make  a  sally  upon  the  wooden 
gates.  Pierre  saw  their  intent,  and  hid  in  the  ground 
some  pemmican  and  all  the  scanty  rum.  Then  he 
looked  at  his  powder  and  shot,  and  saw  that  there  was 
little  left.  If  he  spent  it  on  the  besiegers,  how  should 
they  fare  for  beast  and  fowl  in  hungry  days?  And  for 
his  rifle  he  had  but  a  brace  of  bullets.  He  rolled  these 
in  his  hand,  looking  upon  them  with  a  grim  smile. 
And  the  Idiot,  seeing,  rose  and  sidled  towards  him,  and 
said:  "Poor  Grah  want  pipe — bubble — bubble."  Then 
a  light  of  childish  cunning  came  into  his  eyes,  and  he 
touched  the  bullets  blunderingly,  and  continued: 
"Plenty,  plenty  b'longs  Grah — give  poor  Grah  pipe — 
plenty,  plenty,  give  you  these." 

And  Pretty  Pierre  after  a  moment  replied:    "So 


30  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

that's  it,  Grab? — you've  got  bullets  stowed  away? 
Well,  I  must  have  them.  It's  a  one-sided  game  in 
which  you  get  the  tricks;  but  here's  the  pipe,  Idiot — 
my  only  pipe  for  your  dribbling  mouth — my  last  good 
comrade.  Now  show  me  the  bullets.  Take  me  to 
them,  daft  one,  quick." 

A  little  later  the  Idiot  sat  inside  the  store,  wrapped 
in  loose  furs,  and  blowing  bubbles;  while  Pretty  Pierre, 
with  many  handfuls  of  bullets  by  him,  waited  for  the 
attack. 

"Eh,"  he  said,  as  he  watched  from  a  loophole, 
"Gyng  and  the  others  have  got  safely  past  the  Cause- 
way, and  the  rest  is  possible.  Well,  it  hurts  an  idiot 
as  much  to  die,  perhaps,  as  a  half-breed  or  a  factor.  It 
is  good  to  stay  here.  If  we  fight,  and  go  out  swift  like 
Grah's  bubbles,  it  is  the  game.  If  we  starve  and  sleep 
as  did  Grah's  mother,  then  it  also  is  the  game.  It  is 
great  to  have  all  the  chances  against  and  then  to  win. 
We  shall  see." 

With  a  sharp  relish  in  his  eye  he  watched  the  enemy 
coming  slowly  forward.  Yet  he  talked  almost  idly  to 
himself:  "I  have  a  thought  of  so  long  ago.  A  woman 
— she  was  a  mother,  and  it  was  on  the  Madawaska 
River,  and  she  said:  'Sometimes  I  think  a  devil  was 
your  father,  an  angel  sometimes.  You  were  begot  in 
an  hour  between  a  fighting  and  a  mass :  between  blood 
and  heaven.  And  when  you  were  born  you  made  no 
cry.  They  said  that  was  a  sign  of  evil.  You  refused 
the  breast,  and  drank  only  of  the  milk  of  wild  cattle. 
In  baptism  you  flung  your  hand  before  your  face  that 
the  water  might  not  touch,  nor  the  priest's  finger  make 
a  cross  upon  the  water.  And  they  said  it  were  better 
if  you  had  been  born  an  idiot  than  with  an  evil  spirit; 
and  that  your  hand  would  be  against  the  loins  that 


31 

bore  you.  But  Pierre,  ah  Pierre,  you  love  your  mother, 
do  you  not?'"  .  .  .  And  he  standing  now,  his  eye 
closed  with  the  gate-chink  in  front  of  Fort  o'  God,  said 
quietly:  "She  was  of  the  race  that  hated  these — my 
mother;  and  she  died  of  a  wound  they  gave  her  at  the 
Tete  Blanche  Hill.  Well,  for  that  you  die  now,  Yel- 
low Arm,  if  this  gun  has  a  bullet  cold  enough." 

A  bullet  pinged  through  the  sharp  air,  as  the  Indians 
swarmed  towards  the  gate,  and  Yellow  Arm,  the  chief, 
fell.  The  besiegers  paused;  and  then,  as  if  at  the 
command  of  the  fallen  man,  they  drew  back,  bearing 
him  to  the  camp,  where  they  sat  down  and  mourned. 

Pierre  watched  them  for  a  tune;  and,  seeing  that 
they  made  no  further  move,  retired  into  the  store, 
where  the  Idiot  muttered  and  was  happy  after  his 
kind.  "Grah  got  pipe — blow  away — blow  away  to 
Annie — pretty  soon." 

"Yes,  Grah,  there's  chance  enough  that  you'll  blow 
away  to  Annie  pretty  soon,"  remarked  the  other. 

"Grah  have  white  eagles — fly,  fly  on  the  wind — oh, 
oh,  bubble,  bubble!"  and  he  sent  the  filmy  globes 
floating  from  the  pipe  that  a  camp  of  river-drivers 
had  given  the  half-breed  winters  before. 

Pierre  stood  and  looked  at  the  wandering  eyes,  be- 
hind which  were  the  torturings  of  an  immense  and 
confused  intelligence;  a  life  that  fell  deformed  before 
the  weight  of  too  much  brain,  so  that  all  tottered 
from  the  womb  into  the  gutters  of  foolishness,  and  the 
tongue  mumbled  of  chaos  when  it  should  have  told 
marvellous  things.  And  the  half-breed,  the  thought  of 
this  coming  upon  him,  said:  "Well,  I  think  the  matters 
of  hell  have  fallen  across  the  things  of  heaven,  and 
there  is  storm.  If  for  one  moment  he  could  think 
clear,  it  would  be  great." 


32  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

He  bethought  him  of  a  certain  chant,  taught  him  by 
a  medicine  man  in  childhood,  which,  sung  to  the  wav- 
ing of  a  torch  in  a  place  of  darkness,  caused  evil  spirits 
to  pass  from  those  possessed,  and  good  spirits  to  reign 
in  their  stead.  And  he  raised  the  Idiot  to  his  feet,  and 
brought  hun,  maundering,  to  a  room  where  no  light 
was.  He  kneeled  before  him  with  a  lighted  torch  of 
bear's  fat  and  the  tendons  of  the  deer,  and  waving  it 
gently  to  and  fro,  sang  the  ancient  rune,  until  the  eye 
of  the  Idiot,  following  the  torch  at  a  tangent  as  it 
waved,  suddenly  became  fixed  upon  the  flame,  when  it 
ceased  to  move.  And  the  words  of  the  chant  ran 
through  Grah's  ears,  and  pierced  to  the  remote  parts 
of  his  being;  and  a  sickening  trouble  came  upon  his 
face,  and  the  lips  ceased  to  drip,  and  were  caught  up  in 
twinges  of  pain.  .  .  .  The  chant  rolled  on:  "Go  forth, 
go  forth  upon  them,  ihou,  the  Scarlet  Hunter!  Drive  them 
forth  into  the  wilds,  drive  them  crying  forth!  Enter  in,  0 
enter  in,  and  lie  upon  the  couch  of  peace,  the  couch  of 
peace  within  my  wigwam,  thou  the  wise  one!  Behold,  I 
call  to  thee!" 

And  Pierre,  looking  upon  the  Idiot,  saw  his  face 
glow,  and  his  eye  stream  steadily  to  the  light,  and  he 
said,  "What  is  it  that  you  see,  Grah? — speak!" 

All  pitifulness  and  struggle  had  gone  from  the  Idiot's 
face,  and  a  strong  calm  fell  upon  it,  and  the  voice  of  a 
man  that  God  had  created  spoke  slowly:  "There  is  an 
end  of  blood.  The  great  chief  Yellow  Arm  is  fallen. 
He  goeth  to  the  plains  where  his  wife  will  mourn  upon 
his  knees,  and  his  children  cry,  because  he  that  gath- 
ered food  is  gone,  and  the  pots  are  empty  on  the  fire. 
And  they  who  follow  hun  shall  fight  no  more.  Two 
shall  live  through  bitter  days,  and  when  the  leaves 
shall  shine  in  the  sun  again,  there  shall  good  things. 


GOD'S  GARRISON  33 

befal.  But  one  shall  go  upon  a  long  journey  with  the 
singing  birds  in  the  path  of  the  white  eagle.  He  shall 
travel,  and  not  cease  until  he  reach  the  place  where 
fools,  and  children,  and  they  into  whom  a  devil  entered 
through  the  gates  of  birth,  find  the  mothers  who  bore 
them.  But  the  other  goeth  at  a  different  time — " 
At  this  point  the  light  in  Pretty  Pierre's  hand  flickered 
and  went  out,  and  through  the  darkness  there  came  a 
voice,  the  voice  of  an  idiot,  that  whimpered:  "Grah 
want  pipe — Annie,  Annie  dead." 

The  angel  of  wisdom  was  gone,  and  chaos  spluttered 
on  the  lolling  lips  again;  the  Idiot  sat  feeling  for  the 
pipe  that  he  had  dropped. 

And  never  again  through  the  days  that  came  and 
went  could  Pierre,  by  any  conjuring,  or  any  swaying 
torch,  make  the  fool  into  a  man  again.  The  devils 
of  confusion  were  returned  forever.  But  there  had 
been  one  glimpse  of  the  god.  And  it  was  as  the  Idiot 
had  said  when  he  saw  with  the  eyes  of  that  god:  no 
more  blood  was  shed.  The  garrison  of  this  fort  held 
it  unmolested.  The  besiegers  knew  not  that  two  men 
only  stayed  within  the  walls;  and  because  the  chief 
begged  to  be  taken  south  to  die,  they  left  the  place  sur- 
rounded by  its  moats  of  ice  and  its  trenches  of  famine; 
and  they  came  not  back. 

But  other  foes  more  deadly  than  the  angry  heathen 
came,  and  they  were  called  Hunger  and  Loneliness. 
The  one  destroyeth  the  body  and  the  other  the  brain. 
But  Grah  was  not  lonely,  nor  did  he  hunger.  He  blew 
his  bubbles,  and  muttered  of  a  wind  whereon  a  useless 
thing — a  film  of  water,  a  butterfly,  or  a  fool — might 
ride  beyond  the  reach  of  spirit,  or  man,  or  heathen. 
His  flesh  remained  the  same,  and  grew  not  less;  but 
that  of  Pierre  wasted,  and  his  eye  grew  darker  with 


34  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

suffering.  For  man  is  only  man,  and  hunger  is  a  cruel 
thing.  To  give  one's  food  to  feed  a  fool,  and  to  search 
the  silent  plains  in  vain  for  any  living  thing  to  kill,  is  a 
matter  for  angels  to  do  and  bear,  and  not  mere  mortals. 
But  this  man  had  a  strength  of  his  own  like  to  his  code 
of  living,  which  was  his  own  and  not  another's.  And  at 
last,  when  spring  leaped  gaily  forth  from  the  grey 
cloak  of  winter,  and  men  of  the  H.  B.  C.  came  to  re- 
lieve Fort  o'  God,  and  entered  at  its  gates,  a  gaunt 
man,  leaning  on  his  rifle,  greeted  them  standing  like 
a  warrior,  though  his  body  was  like  that  of  one  who 
had  lain  in  the  grave.  He  answered  to  the  name  of 
Pierre  without  pride,  but  like  a  man  and  not  as  a  sick 
woman.  And  huddled  on  the  floor  beside  him  was  an 
idiot  fondling  a  pipe,  with  a  shred  of  pemmican  at  his 
lips. 

As  if  in  irony  of  man's  sacrifice,  the  All  Hail  and 
the  Master  of  Things  permitted  the  fool  to  fulfil  his 
own  prophecy,  and  die  of  a  sudden  sickness  in  the 
coming-on  of  summer.  But  he  of  God's  Garrison 
that  remained  repented  not  of  his  deed.  Such  men 
have  no  repentance,  neither  of  good  nor  evil. 


A  HAZAED  OF  THE  NOETH 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH 

NOBODY  except  Gregory  Thorne  and  myself  knows  the 
history  of  the  Man  and  Woman,  who  lived  on  the 
Height  of  Land,  just  where  Dog  Ear  River  falls  into 
Marigold  Lake.  This  portion  of  the  Height  of  Land 
is  a  lonely  country.  The  sun  marches  over  it  distantly, 
and  the  man  of  the  East — the  braggart — calls  it  out- 
cast; but  annuals  love  it;  and  the  shades  of  the  long- 
gone  trapper  and  voyageur  saunter  without  mourning 
through  its  fastnesses.  When  you  are  in  doubt,  trust 
God's  dumb  creatures — and  the  happy  dead  who  whis- 
per pleasant  promptings  to  us,  and  whose  knowledge 
is  mighty.  Besides,  the  Man  and  Woman  lived  there, 
and  Gregory  Thorne  says  that  they  could  recover  a 
lost  paradise.  But  Gregory  Thorne  is  an  insolent 
youth.  The  names  of  these  people  were  John  and 
Audrey  Malbrouck;  the  Man  was  known  to  the  makers 
of  backwoods  history  as  Captain  John.  Gregory  says 
about  that — but  no,  not  yet! — let  his  first  meeting  with 
the  Man  and  the  Woman  be  described  in  his  own  words, 
unusual  and  flippant  as  they  sometimes  are;  for  though 
he  is  a  graduate  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and  a 
brother  of  a  Right  Honourable,  he  has  conceived  it  his 
duty  to  emancipate  himself  in  the  matter  of  style  in 
language;  and  he  has  succeeded. 

"It  was  autumn,"  he  said,  "all  colours;  beautiful 
and  nippy  on  the  Height  of  Land;  wild  ducks,  the 
which  no  man  could  number,  and  bear's  meat  abroad 
in  the  world.  I  was  alone.  I  had  hunted  all  day, 
leaving  my  mark  now  and  then  as  I  journeyed,  with  a 

37 


38  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

cache  of  slaughter  here,  and  a  blazed  hickory  there.  I 
was  hungry  as  a  circus  tiger — did  you  ever  eat  slippery- 
elm  bark? — yes,  I  was  as  bad  as  that.  I  guessed  from 
what  I  had  been  told,  that  the  Malbrouck  show  must 
be  hereaway  somewhere.  I  smelled  the  lake  miles  off 
— oh,  you  could  too  if  you  were  half  the  animal  I  am; 
I  followed  my  nose  and  the  slippery-elm  between  my 
teeth,  and  came  at  a  double-quick  suddenly  on  the 
fair  domain.  There  the  two  sat  in  front  of  the  house 
like  turtle-doves,  and  as  silent  as  a  middy  after  his 
first  kiss.  Much  as  I  ached  to  get  my  tooth  into  some- 
thing filling,  I  wished  that  I  had  'em  under  my  pencil, 
with  that  royal  sun  making  a  rainbow  of  the  lake,  the 
woods  all  scarlet  and  gold,  and  that  mist  of  purple — 
eh,  you've  seen  it? — and  they  sitting  there  monarchs 
of  it  all,  like  that  duffer  of  a  king  who  had  operas 
played  for  his  solitary  benefit.  But  I  hadn't  a  pencil 
and  I  had  a  hunger,  and  I  said  'How!'  like  any  other 
Injin — insolent,  wasn't  it?  Then  the  Man  rose,  and  he 
said  I  was  welcome,  and  she  smiled  an  approving  but 
not  very  immediate  smile,  and  she  kept  her  seat, — she 
kept  her  seat,  my  boy, — and  that  was  the  first  thing 
that  set  me  thinking.  She  didn't  seem  to  be  conscious 
that  there  was  before  her  one  of  the  latest  representa- 
tives from  Belgravia,  not  she!  But  when  I  took  an 
honest  look  at  her  face,  I  understood.  I'm  glad  that 
I  had  my  hat  in  my  hand,  polite  as  any  Frenchman  on 
the  threshold  of  a  blanchisserie:  for  I  learned  very  soon 
that  the  Woman  had  been  in  Belgravia  too,  and  knew 
far  more  than  I  did  about  what  was  what.  When  she 
did  rise  to  array  the  supper  table,  it  struck  me  that  if 
Josephine  Beauharnais  had  been  like  her,  she  might 
have  kept  her  hold  on  Napoleon,  and  saved  his  for- 
tunes; made  Europe  France;  and  France  the  world. 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH  39 

I  could  not  understand  it.  Jimmy  Haldane  had  said 
to  me  when  I  was  asking  for  Malbrouck's  place  on  the 
compass, — 'Don't  put  on  any  side  with  them,  my 
Greg,  or  you'll  take  a  day  off  for  penitence.'  They  were 
both  tall  and  good  to  look  at,  even  if  he  was  a  bit 
rugged,  with  neck  all  wire  and  muscle,  and  had  big 
knuckles.  But  she  had  hands  like  those  in  a  picture 
of  Velasquez,  with  a  warm  whiteness  and  educated — 
that's  it,  educated  hands. 

"She  wasn't  young,  but  she  seemed  so.  Her  eyes 
looked  up  and  out  at  you  earnestly,  yet  not  inquisi- 
tively, and  more  occupied  with  something  in  her  mind, 
than  with  what  was  before  her.  In  short,  she  was  a 
lady;  not  one  by  virtue  of  a  visit  to  the  gods  that 
rule  o'er  Buckingham  Palace,  but  by  the  claims  of 
good  breeding  and  long  descent.  She  puzzled  me, 
eluded  me — she  reminded  me  of  someone;  but  who? 
Someone  I  liked,  because  I  felt  a  thrill  of  admiration 
whenever  I  looked  at  her — but  it  was  no  use,  I  couldn't 
remember.  I  soon  found  myself  talking  to  her  accord- 
ing to  St.  James — the  palace,  you  know — and  at  once 
I  entered  a  bet  with  my  beloved  aunt,  the  dowager— 
who  never  refuses  to  take  my  offer,  though  she  seldom 
wins,  and  she's  ten  thousand  miles  away,  and  has  to 
take  my  word  for  it — that  I  should  find  out  the  history 
of  this  Man  and  Woman  before  another  Christmas 
morning,  which  wasn't  more  than  two  months  off. 
You  know  whether  or  not  I  won  it,  my  son." 

I  had  frequently  hinted  to  Gregory  that  I  was  old 
enough  to  be  his  father,  and  that  in  calling  me  his 
son,  his  language  was  misplaced;  and  I  repeated  it 
at  that  moment.  He  nodded  good-humouredly,  and 
continued: 

"I  was  born  insolent,  my  s — my  ancestor.    Well, 


40  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

after  I  had  cleared  a  space  at  the  supper  table,  and 
had,  with  permission,  lighted  my  pipe,  I  began  to 
talk.  .  .  .  Oh  yes,  I  did  give  them  a  chance  occasion- 
ally; don't  interrupt.  ...  I  gossiped  about  England, 
France,  the  universe.  From  the  brief  comments  they 
made  I  saw  they  knew  all  about  it,  and  understood 
my  social  argot,  all  but  a  few  words — is  there  any- 
thing peculiar  about  any  of  my  words?  After  hav- 
ing exhausted  Europe  and  Asia  I  discussed  America; 
talked  about  Quebec,  the  folklore  of  the  French  Ca- 
nadians, the  voyageurs  from  old  Maisonneuve  down.  All 
the  history  I  knew  I  rallied,  and  was  suddenly  bowled 
out.  For  Malbrouck  followed  my  trail  from  the  time 
I  began  to  talk,  and  in  ten  minutes  he  had  proved  me 
to  be  a  baby  in  knowledge,  an  emaciated  baby;  he 
eliminated  me  from  the  equation.  He  first  tripped  me 
on  the  training  of  naval  cadets;  then  on  the  Crimea; 
then  on  the  taking  of  Quebec;  then  on  the  Franco- 
Prussian  War;  then,  with  a  sudden  round-up,  on  In- 
dia. I  had  been  trusting  to  vague  outlines  of  history; 
I  felt  when  he  began  to  talk  that  I  was  dealing  with  a 
man  who  not  only  knew  history,  but  had  lived  it.  He 
talked  in  the  fewest  but  directest  words,  and  waxed 
eloquent  in  a  blunt  and  colossal  way.  But  seeing  his 
wife's  eyes  fixed  on  him  intently,  he  suddenly  pulled 
up,  and  no  more  did  I  get  from  him  on  the  subject. 
He  stopped  so  suddenly  that  in  order  to  help  over  the 
awkwardness,  though  I'm  not  really  sure  there  was 
any,  I  began  to  hum  a  song  to  myself.  Now,  upon  my 
soul,  I  didn't  think  what  I  was  humming;  it  was  some 
subterranean  association  of  things,  I  suppose — but  that 
doesn't  matter  here.  I  only  state  it  to  clear  myself  of 
any  unnecessary  insolence.  These  were  the  words  I 
was  maundering  with  this  noble  voice  of  mine: 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH  41 

"'The  news  I  bring,  fair  Lady, 
Will  make  your  tears  run  down — 

Put  off  your  rose-red  dress  so  fine 
And  doff  your  satin  gown! 

Monsieur  Malbrouck  is  dead,  alas! 
And  buried,  too,  for  aye; 

I  saw  four  officers  who  bore 
His  mighty  corse  away. 

We  saw  above  the  laurels, 
His  soul  fly  forth  amain. 

And  each  one  fell  upon  his  face 
And  then  rose  up  again. 

And  so  we  sang  the  glories, 

For  which  great  Malbrouck  bled; 

Mironton,  Mironton,  Mirontaine, 
Great  Malbrouck,  he  is  dead.' 

"I  felt  the  silence  grow  peculiar,  uncomfortable.  I 
looked  up.  Mrs.  Malbrouck  was  rising  to  her  feet 
with  a  look  in  her  face  that  would  make  angels  sorry 
— a  startled,  sorrowful  thing  that  comes  from  a  sleep- 
ing pain.  What  an  ass  I  was!  Why,  the  Man's  name 
was  Malbrouck;  her  name  was  Malbrouck — awful  in- 
solence! But  surely  there  was  something  in  the  story 
of  the  song  itself  that  had  moved  her.  As  I  afterward 
knew,  that  was  it.  Malbrouck  sat  still  and  unmoved, 
though  I  thought  I  saw  something  stern  and  masterful 
in  his  face  as  he  turned  to  me;  but  again  instantly  his 
eyes  were  bent  on  his  wife  with  a  comforting  and  affec- 
tionate expression.  She  disappeared  into  the  house. 
Hoping  to  make  it  appear  that  I  hadn't  noticed  any- 
thing, I  dropped  my  voice  a  little  and  went  on,  intend- 
ing, however,  to  stop  at  the  end  of  the  verse: 


42  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

" '  Malbrouck  has  gone  a-fighting, 

Mironton,  Mironton,  Mirontaine!' 

I  ended  there;  because  Malbrouck's  heavy  hand  was 
laid  on  my  shoulder,  and  he  said:  'If  you  please,  not 
that  song.' 

"I  suspect  I  acted  like  an  idiot.  I  stammered  out 
apologies,  went  down  on  my  litanies,  figuratively 
speaking,  and  was  all  the  same  confident  that  my 
excuses  were  making  bad  infernally  worse.  But  some- 
how the  old  chap  had  taken  a  liking  to  me. — No,  of 
course  you  couldn't  understand  that.  Not  that  he 
was  so  old,  you  know;  but  he  had  the  way  of  retired 
royalty  about  him,  as  if  he  had  lived  life  up  to  the 
hilt,  and  was  all  pulse  and  granite.  Then  he  began  to 
talk  in  his  quiet  way  about  hunting  and  fishing;  about 
stalking  in  the  Highlands  and  tiger-hunting  in  India; 
and  wound  up  with  some  wonderful  stun0  about  moose- 
hunting,  the  sport  of  Canada.  This  made  me  itch  like 
sin,  just  to  get  my  fingers  on  a  trigger,  with  a  full 
moose-yard  in  view.  I  can  feel  it  now — the  bound  in 
the  blood  as  I  caught  at  Malbrouck's  arm  and  said: 
'By  George,  I  must  kill  moose;  that's  sport  for  Vi- 
kings, and  I  was  meant  to  be  a  Viking — or  a  gladiator.' 
Malbrouck  at  once  replied  that  he  would  give  me  some 
moose-hunting  in  December  if  I  would  come  up  to 
Marigold  Lake.  I  couldn't  exactly  reply  on  the  in- 
stant, because,  you  see,  there  wasn't  much  chance  for 
board  and  lodging  thereabouts,  unless — but  he  went 
on  to  say  that  I  should  make  his  house  my  'public,' — • 
perhaps  he  didn't  say  it  quite  in  those  terms, — that  he 
and  his  wife  would  be  glad  to  have  me.  With  a  couple 
of  Indians  we  could  go  north-west,  where  the  moose- 
yards  were,  and  have  some  sport  both  exciting  and 
prodigious.  Well,  I'm  a  muff,  I  know,  but  I  didn't 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH  43 

refuse  that.  Besides,  I  began  to  see  the  safe  side  of 
the  bet  I  had  made  with  my  aunt,  the  dowager,  and 
I  was  more  than  pleased  with  what  had  come  to  pass 
so  far.  Lucky  for  you,  too,  you  yarn-spinner,  that 
the  thing  did  develop  so,  or  you  wouldn't  be  getting 
fame  and  shekels  out  of  the  results  of  my  story. 

"Well,  I  got  one  thing  out  of  the  night's  experience; 
and  it  was  that  the  Malbroucks  were  no  plebs.,  that 
they  had  had  their  day  where  plates  are  blue  and  gold 
and  the  spoons  are  solid  coin.  But  what  had  sent 
them  up  here  among  the  moose,  the  Indians,  and  the 
conies — whatever  they  are?  How  should  I  get  at  it? 
Insolence,  you  say?  Yes,  that.  I  should  come  up 
here  in  December,  and  I  should  mulct  my  aunt  in  the 
price  of  a  new  breech-loader.  But  I  found  out  nothing 
the  next  morning,  and  I  left  with  a  paternal  benedic- 
tion from  Malbrouck,  and  a  smile  from  his  wife  that 
sent  my  blood  tingling  as  it  hadn't  tingled  since  a  cer- 
tain season  in  London,  which  began  with  my  tuneful 
lyre  sounding  hopeful  numbers  and  ended  with  it  hang- 
ing on  the  willows. 

"When  I  thought  it  all  over,  as  I  trudged  back  on 
yesterday's  track,  I  concluded  that  I  had  told  them 
all  my  history  from  my  youth  up  until  now,  and  had 
got  nothing  from  them  in  return.  I  had  exhausted 
my  family  records,  bit  by  bit,  like  a  curate  in  his  first 
parish;  and  had  gone  so  far  as  to  testify  that  one  of 
my  ancestors  had  been  banished  to  Australia  for  po- 
litical crimes.  Distinctly  they  had  me  at  an  advan- 
tage, though,  to  be  sure,  I  had  betrayed  Mrs.  Mal- 
brouck into  something  more  than  a  suspicion  of  emotion. 

"When  I  got  back  to  my  old  camp,  I  could  find  out 
nothing  from  the  other  fellows;  but  Jacques  Pontiac 
told  me  that  his  old  mate,  Pretty  Pierre,  who  in  recent 


44  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

days  had  fallen  from  grace,  knew  something  of  these 
people  that  no  one  else  guessed,  because  he  had  let 
them  a  part  of  his  house  in  the  parish  of  St.  Genevieve 
in  Quebec,  years  before.  Pierre  had  testified  to  one 
fact,  that  a  child — a  girl — had  been  born  to  Mrs.  Mal- 
brouck  in  his  house,  but  all  further  knowledge  he  had 
withheld.  Pretty  Pierre  was  off  in  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains practising  his  profession — chiefly  poker — and  was 
not  available  for  information.  What  did  I,  Gregory 
Thorne,  want  of  the  information  anyway?  That's  the 
point,  my  son.  Judging  from  after-developments  I 
suppose  it  was  what  the  foolish  call  occult  sympathy. 
Well,  where  was  that  girl-child?  Jacques  Pontiac  didn't 
know.  Nobody  knew.  And  I  couldn't  get  rid  of 
Mrs.  Malbrouck's  face;  it  haunted  me;  the  broad 
brow,  deep  eyes,  and  high-bred  sweetness — all  beauti- 
fully animal.  Don't  laugh :  I  find  astonishing  likenesses 
between  the  perfectly  human  and  the  perfectly  animal. 
Did  you  never  see  how  beautiful  and  modest  the  faces 
of  deer  are;  how  chic  and  sensitive  is  the  manner  of  a 
hound;  nor  the  keen,  warm  look  in  the  eye  of  a  well- 
bred  mare?  Why,  I'd  rather  be  a  good  horse  of  blood 
and  temper  than  half  the  fellows  I  know.  You  are 
not  an  animal  lover  as  I  am;  yes,  even  when  I  shoot 
them  or  fight  them  I  admire  them,  just  as  I'd  admire 
a  swordsman  who,  in  quart,  would  give  me  death  by 
the  wonderful  upper  thrust.  It's  all  a  battle;  all  a 
game  of  love  and  slaughter,  my  son,  and  both  go 
together. 

"Well,  as  I  say,  her  face  followed  me.  Watch  how 
the  thing  developed.  By  the  prairie-track  I  went  over 
to  Fort  Desire,  near  the  Rockies,  almost  immediately 
after  this,  to  see  about  buying  a  ranch  with  my 
old  chum  at  Trinity,  Polly  Cliff sha we — Polydore,  you 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH  45 

know.  Whom  should  I  meet  in  a  hut  on  the  ranch 
but  Jacques's  friend,  Pretty  Pierre.  This  was  luck; 
but  he  was  not  like  Jacques  Pontiac,  he  was  secretive 
as  a  Buddhist  deity.  He  had  a  good  many  of  the 
characteristics  that  go  to  a  fashionable  diplomatist: 
clever,  wicked,  cool,  and  in  speech  doing  the  vanish- 
ing trick  just  when  you  wanted  him.  But  my  star  of 
fortune  was  with  me.  One  day  Silverbottle,  an  In- 
dian, being  in  a  murderous  humour,  put  a  bullet  in 
Pretty  Pierre's  leg,  and  would  have  added  another, 
only  I  stopped  it  suddenly.  While  in  his  bed  he  told 
me  what  he  knew  of  the  Malbroucks. 

"This  is  the  fashion  of  it.  John  and  Audrey  Mal- 
brouck  had  come  to  Quebec  in  the  year  1865,  and 
sojourned  in  the  parish  of  St.  Genevieve,  in  the  house 
of  the  mother  of  Pretty  Pierre.  Of  an  inquiring  turn 
of  mind,  the  French  half-breed  desired  to  know  con- 
cerning the  history  of  these  English  people,  who, 
being  poor,  were  yet  gentle,  and  spoke  French  with  a 
grace  and  accent  which  was  to  the  French-Canadian 
patois  as  Shakespeare's  English  is  to  that  of  Seven 
Dials.  Pierre's  methods  of  inquisitiveness  were  not 
strictly  dishonest.  He  did  not  open  letters,  he  did 
not  besiege  dispatch-boxes,  he  did  not  ask  impudent 
questions;  he  watched  and  listened.  In  his  own  way 
he  found  out  that  the  man  had  been  a  soldier  in  the 
ranks,  and  that  he  had  served  in  India.  They  were 
most  attached  to  the  child,  whose  name  was  Margue- 
rite. One  day  a  visitor,  a  lady,  came  to  them.  She 
seemed  to  be  the  cause  of  much  unhappiness  to  Mrs. 
Malbrouck.  And  Pierre  was  alert  enough  to  discover 
that  this  distinguished-looking  person  desired  to  take 
the  child  away  with  her.  To  this  the  young  mother 
would  not  consent,  and  the  visitor  departed  with  some 


46  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

chillingly-polite  phrases, — part  English,  part  French, — 
beyond  the  exact  comprehension  of  Pierre,  and  leaving 
the  father  and  mother  and  little  Marguerite  happy. 
Then,  however,  these  people  seemed  to  become  sud- 
denly poorer,  and  Malbrouck  began  farming  in  a  hum- 
ble, but  not  entirely  successful  way.  The  energy  of 
the  man  was  prodigious;  but  his  luck  was  sardonic. 
Floods  destroyed  his  first  crops,  prices  ran  low,  debt 
accumulated,  foreclosure  of  mortgage  occurred,  and 
Malbrouck  and  the  wife  and  child  went  west. 

"Five  years  later,  Pretty  Pierre  saw  them  again  at 
Marigold  Lake:  Malbrouck  as  agent  for  the  Hudson's 
Bay  Company — still  poor,  but  contented.  It  was  at 
this  period  that  the  former  visitor  again  appeared, 
clothed  in  purple  and  fine  linen,  and,  strange  as  it 
may  seem,  succeeded  in  carrying  off  the  little  child, 
leaving  the  father  and  mother  broken,  but  still  de- 
voted to  each  other. 

"Pretty  Pierre  closed  his  narration  with  these 
words:  'Bien,  that  Malbrouck,  he  is  great.  I  have 
not  much  love  of  men,  but  he — well,  if  he  say, — "See, 
Pierre,  I  go  to  the  home  of  the  white  bear  and  the 
winter  that  never  ends;  perhaps  we  come  back,  per- 
haps we  die;  but  there  will  be  sport  for  men — "voila! 
I  would  go.  To  know  one  strong  man  in  this  world  is 
good.  Perhaps,  some  time  I  will  go  to  him — yes, 
Pierre,  the  gambler,  will  go  to  him,  and  say:  It  is 
good  for  the  wild  dog  that  he  live  near  the  lion.  And 
the  child,  she  was  beautiful;  she  had  a  light  heart  and 
a  sweet  way.' ' 

It  was  with  this  slight  knowledge  that  Gregory 
Thorne  set  out  on  his  journey  over  the  great  Canadian 
prairie  to  Marigold  Lake,  for  his  December  moose-hunt. 

Gregory  has  since  told  me  that,  as  he  travelled  with 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH  47 

Jacques  Pontiac  across  the  Height  of  Land  to  his 
destination,  he  had  uncomfortable  feelings;  presenti- 
ments, peculiar  reflections  of  the  past,  and  melancholy 
— a  thing  far  from  habitual  with  him.  Insolence  is 
all  very  well,  but  you  cannot  apply  it  to  indefinite 
thoughts;  it  isn't  effective  with  vague  presentiments. 
And  when  Gregory's  insolence  was  taken  away  from 
him,  he  was  very  like  other  mortals;  virtue  had  gone 
out  of  him;  his  brown  cheek  and  frank  eye  had  lost 
something  of  their  charm.  It  was  these  unusual 
broodings  that  worried  him;  he  waked  up  suddenly 
one  night  calling,  "Margaret!  Margaret!"  like  any 
childlike  lover.  And  that  did  not  please  him.  He 
believed  in  things  that,  as  he  said  himself,  "he  could 
get  between  his  fingers;"  he  had  little  sympathy  with 
morbid  sentimentalities.  But  there  was  an  English 
Margaret  in  his  life;  and  he,  like  many  another  child- 
like man,  had  fallen  in  love,  and  with  her — very  much 
in  love  indeed;  and  a  star  had  crossed  his  love  to  a 
degree  that  greatly  shocked  him  and  pleased  the  girl's 
relatives.  She  was  the  granddaughter  of  a  certain 
haughty  dame  of  high  degree,  who  regarded  icily  this 
poorest  of  younger  sons,  and  held  her  darling  aloof. 
Gregory,  very  like  a  blunt  unreasoning  lover,  sought 
to  carry  the  redoubt  by  wild  assault;  and  was  over- 
whelmingly routed.  The  young  lady,  though  finding 
some  avowed  pleasure  in  his  company,  accompanied 
by  brilliant  misunderstanding  of  his  advances  and  full- 
front  speeches,  had  never  given  him  enough  encourage- 
ment to  warrant  his  playing  young  Lochinvar  in  Park 
Lane;  and  his  cup  became  full  when,  at  the  close  of 
the  season,  she  was  whisked  off  to  the  seclusion  of  a 
country-seat,  whose  walls  to  him  were  impregnable. 
His  defeat  was  then,  and  afterwards,  complete.  He 


48  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

pluckily  replied  to  the  derision  of  his  relatives  with 
multiplied  derision,  demanded  his  inheritance,  got  his 
traps  together,  bought  a  fur  coat,  and  straightway 
sailed  the  wintry  seas  to  Canada. 

His  experiences  had  not  soured  his  temper.  He  be- 
lieved that  every  dog  has  his  day,  and  that  Fate  was 
very  malicious;  that  it  brought  down  the  proud,  and 
rewarded  the  patient;  that  it  took  up  its  abode  in 
marble  halls,  and  was  the  mocker  at  the  feast.  All 
this  had  reference,  of  course,  to  the  time  when  he 
should — rich  as  any  nabob — return  to  London,  and  be 
victorious  over  his  enemy  in  Park  Lane.  It  was  singu- 
lar that  he  believed  this  thing  would  occur;  but  he 
did.  He  had  not  yet  made  his  fortune,  but  he  had 
been  successful  in  the  game  of  buying  and  selling 
lands,  and  luck  seemed  to  dog  his  path.  He  was  fear- 
less, and  he  had  a  keen  eye  for  all  the  points  of  every 
game — every  game  but  love. 

Yet  he  was  born  to  succeed  in  that  game  too.  For 
though  his  theory  was,  that  everything  should  be 
treated  with  impertinence  before  you  could  get  a 
proper  view  of  it,  he  was  markedly  respectful  to  peo- 
ple. Few  could  resist  him;  his  impudence  of  ideas 
was  so  pleasantly  mixed  with  delicately  suggested 
admiration  of  those  to  whom  he  talked.  It  was  im- 
possible that  John  Malbrouck  and  his  wife  could  have 
received  him  other  than  they  did;  his  was  the  elo- 
quent, conquering  spirit. 

II 

BY  the  tune  he  reached  Lake  Marigold  he  had  shaken 
off  all  those  hovering  fancies  of  the  woods,  which, 
after  all,  might  only  have  been  the  whisperings  of 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH  49 

those  friendly  and  far-seeing  spirits  who  liked  the  lad 
as  he  journeyed  through  their  lonely  pleasure-grounds. 
John  Malbrouck  greeted  him  with  quiet  cordiality, 
and  Mrs.  Malbrouck  smiled  upon  him  with  a  different 
smile  from  that  with  which  she  had  speeded  him  a 
month  before;  there  was  in  it  a  new  light  of  knowledge, 
and  Gregory  could  not  understand  it.  It  struck  him 
as  singular  that  the  lady  should  be  dressed  in  finer 
garments  than  she  wore  when  he  last  saw  her;  though 
certainly  her  purple  became  her.  She  wore  it  as  if 
born  to  it;  and  with  an  air  more  sedately  courteous 
than  he  had  ever  seen,  save  at  one  house  in  Park  Lane. 
Had  this  rustle  of  fine  trappings  been  made  for  him? 
No;  the  woman  had  a  mind  above  such  snobbishness, 
he  thought.  He  suffered  for  a  moment  the  pang  of  a 
cynical  idea;  but  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Malbrouck  were  on 
him  and  he  knew  that  he  was  as  nothing  before  her. 
Her  eyes — how  they  were  fixed  upon  him!  Only  two 
women  had  looked  so  truthfully  at  him  before:  his 
dead  mother  and — Margaret.  And  Margaret — why, 
how  strangely  now  at  this  instant  came  the  thought 
that  she  was  like  his  Margaret!  Wonder  sprang  to 
his  eyes.  At  that  moment  a  door  opened  and  a  girl 
entered  the  room — a  girl  lissome,  sweet-faced,  well- 
bred  of  manner,  who  came  slowly  towards  them. 

"My  daughter,  Mr.  Thorne,"  the  mother  briefly  re- 
marked. There  was  no  surprise  in  the  girl's  face,  only 
an  even  reserve  of  pleasure,  as  she  held  out  her  hand 
and  said:  "Mr.  Gregory  Thorne  and  I  are  old — 
enemies."  Gregory  Thome's  nerve  forsook  him  for  an 
instant.  He  knew  now  the  reason  of  his  vague  pre- 
sentiments in  the  woods;  he  understood  why,  one 
night,  when  he  had  been  more  childlike  than  usual  in 
his  memory  of  the  one  woman  who  could  make  life 


50  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

joyous  for  him,  the  voice  of  a  voyageur,  not  Jacques's 
nor  that  of  any  one  in  camp,  sang: 

"My  dear  love,  she  waits  for  me, 

None  other  my  world  is  adorning; 
My  true  love  I  come  to  thee, 

My  dear,  the  white  star  of  the  morning. 
Eagles  spread  out  your  wings, — 

Behold  where  the  red  dawn  is  breaking  I 
Hark,  'tis  my  darling  sings, 

The  flowers,  the  song-birds  awaking; 
See,  where  she  comes  to  me, 

My  love,  ah,  my  dear  love!" 

And  here  she  was.  He  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and 
said:  "Miss  Carley,  you  have  your  enemy  at  an  ad- 
vantage." 

"Miss  Carley  hi  Park  Lane,  Margaret  Malbrouck 
here  in  my  old  home,"  she  replied. 

There  ran  swiftly  through  the  young  man's  brain 
the  brief  story  that  Pretty  Pierre  had  told  him.  This, 
then,  was  the  child  who  had  been  carried  away,  and 
who,  years  after,  had  made  captive  his  heart  in  Lon- 
don town!  Well,  one  thing  was  clear,  the  girl's  mother 
here  seemed  inclined  to  be  kinder  to  him  than  was  the 
guardian  grandmother — if  she  was  the  grandmother — 
because  they  had  their  first  talk  undisturbed,  it  may 
be  encouraged;  amiable  mothers  do  such  deeds  at 
times. 

"And  now  pray,  Mr.  Thome,"  she  continued,  "may 
I  ask  how  came  you  here  in  my  father's  house  after 
having  treated  me  so  cavalierly  in  London? — not  even 
sending  a  P.  P.  C.  when  you  vanished  from  your  wor- 
shippers hi  Vanity  Fair." 

"As  for  my  being  here,  it  is  simply  a  case  of  blind 
fate;  as  for  my  friends,  the  only  one  I  wanted  to  be 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH  51 

sorry  for  my  going  was  behind  earthworks  which  I 
could  not  scale  in  order  to  leave  my  card,  or — or  any- 
thing else  of  more  importance;  and  being  left  as  it 
were  to  the  inclemency  of  a  winter  world,  I  fled  from — " 

She  interrupted  him.  "What!  the  conqueror,  you, 
flying  from  your  Moscow?" 

He  felt  rather  helpless  under  her  gay  raillery;  but 
he  said: 

"Well,  I  didn't  burn  my  kremlin  behind  me." 

"Your  kremlin?" 

"My  ships,  then:  they — they  are  just  the  same," 
he  earnestly  pleaded.  Foolish  youth,  to  attempt  to 
take  such  a  heart  by  surprise  and  storm! 

"That  is  very  interesting,"  she  said,  "but  hardly 
wise.  To  make  fortunes  and  be  happy  hi  new  coun- 
tries, one  should  forget  the  old  ones.  Meditation  is 
the  enemy  of  action." 

"There's  one  meditation  could  make  me  conquer  the 
North  Pole,  if  I  could  but  grasp  it  definitely." 

"Grasp  the  North  Pole?  That  would  be  awkward 
for  your  friends  and  gratifying  to  your  enemies,  if  one 
may  believe  science  and  history.  But,  perhaps,  you 
are  in  earnest  after  all,  poor  fellow!  for  my  father  tells 
me  you  are  going  over  the  hills  and  far  away  to  the 
moose-yards.  How  valiant  you  are,  and  how  quickly 
you  grasp  the  essentials  of  fortune-making!" 

"Miss  Malbrouck,  I  am  in  earnest,  and  I've  always 
been  in  earnest  in  one  thing  at  least.  I  came  out  here 
to  make  money,  and  I've  made  some,  and  shall  make 
more;  but  just  now  the  moose  are  as  brands  for  the 
burning,  and  I  have  a  gun  sulky  for  want  of  exercise." 

"What  an  eloquent  warrior-temper!  And  to  whom 
are  your  deeds  of  valour  to  be  dedicated?  Before 
whom  do  you  intend  to  lay  your  trophies  of  the  chase?  " 


52  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"Before  the  most  provoking  but  worshipful  lady  that 
I  know." 

"Who  is  the  sylvan  maid?  What  princess  of  the 
glade  has  now  the  homage  of  your  impressionable 
heart,  Mr.  Thome?" 

And  Gregory  Thorne,  his  native  insolence  standing 
him  in  no  stead,  said  very  humbly: 

"You  are  that  sylvan  maid,  that  princess — ah,  is 
this  fair  to  me,  is  it  fair,  I  ask  you?" 

"You  really  mean  that  about  the  trophies?"  she  re- 
plied. "And  shall  you  return  like  the  mighty  khans, 
with  captive  tigers  and  lions,  led  by  stalwart  slaves, 
in  your  train,  or  shall  they  be  captive  moose  or  griz- 
zlies?" 

"Grizzlies  are  not  possible  here,"  he  said,  with 
cheerful  seriousness,  "but  the  moose  is  possible,  and 
more,  if  you  would  be  kinder — Margaret." 

"Your  supper,  see,  is  ready,"  she  said.  "I  venture 
to  hope  your  appetite  has  not  suffered  because  of  long 
absence  from  your  friends." 

He  could  only  dumbly  answer  by  a  protesting  mo- 
tion of  the  hand,  and  his  smile  was  not  remarkably 
buoyant. 

The  next  morning  they  started  on  their  moose-hunt. 
Gregory  Thorne  was  cast  down  when  he  crossed  the 
threshold  into  the  winter  morning  without  hand-clasp 
or  god-speed  from  Margaret  Malbrouck;  but  Mrs. 
Malbrouck  was  there,  and  Gregory,  looking  into  her 
eyes,  thought  how  good  a  thing  it  would  be  for  him,  if 
some  such  face  looked  benignly  out  on  him  every  morn- 
ing, before  he  ventured  forth  into  the  deceitful  day. 
But  what  was  the  use  of  wishing!  Margaret  evidently 
did  not  care.  And  though  the  air  was  clear  and  the 
sun  shone  brightly,  he  felt  there  was  a  cheerless  wind 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH  53 

blowing  on  him;    a  wind  that  chilled  him;    and  he 
hummed  to  himself  bitterly  a  song  of  the  voyageurs:, 

"  O,  O,  the  winter  wind,  the  North  wind, — 

My  snow-bird,  where  art  thou  gone? 
O,  O,  the  wailing  wind  the  night  wind,— 
The  cold  nest;  I  am  alone. 
O,  O,  my  snow-bird! 

"  O,  O,  the  waving  sky,  the  white  sky, — 

My  snow-bird  thou  fliest  far; 
O,  O,  the  eagle's  cry,  the  wild  cry, — 
My  lost  love,  my  lonely  star. 
O,  O,  my  snow-bird!" 

He  was  about  to  start  briskly  forward  to  join  Mal- 
brouck  and  his  Indians,  who  were  already  on  their 
way,  when  he  heard  his  name  called,  and,  turning,  he 
saw  Margaret  in  the  doorway,  her  fingers  held  to  the 
tips  of  her  ears,  as  yet  unused  to  the  frost.  He  ran 
back  to  where  she  stood,  and  held  out  his  hand.  "I 
was  afraid,"  he  bluntly  said,  "that  you  wouldn't  for- 
sake your  morning  sleep  to  say  good-bye  to  me." 

"It  isn't  always  the  custom,  is  it,"  she  replied,  "for 
ladies  to  send  the  very  early  hunter  away  with  a 
tally-ho?  But  since  you  have  the  grace  to  be  afraid 
of  anything,  I  can  excuse  myself  to  myself  for  fleeing 
the  pleasantest  dreams  to  speed  you  on  your  warlike 
path." 

At  this  he  brightened  very  much,  but  she,  as  if  re- 
penting she  had  given  him  so  much  pleasure,  added: 
"I  wanted  to  say  good-bye  to  my  father,  you  know; 
and — "  she  paused. 

"And?"  he  added. 

"And  to  tell  him  that  you  have  fond  relatives  in  the 
old  land  who  would  mourn  your  early  taking  oft";  and, 


54  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

therefore,  to  beg  him,  for  their  sakes,  to  keep  you  safe 
from  any  outrageous  moose  that  mightn't  know  how 
the  world  needed  you." 

"But  there  you  are  mistaken/'  he  said;  "I  haven't 
anyone  who  would  really  care,  worse  luck!  except  the 
dowager;  and  she,  perhaps,  would  be  consoled  to  know 
that  I  had  died  in  battle, — even  with  a  moose, — and 
was  clear  of  the  possibility  of  hanging  another  lost 
reputation  on  the  family  tree,  to  say  nothing  of  sus- 
pension from  any  other  kind  of  tree.  But,  if  it  should 
be  the  other  way;  if  I  should  see  your  father  in  the 
path  of  an  outrageous  moose — what  then?" 

"My  father  is  a  hunter  born,"  she  responded;  "he 
is  a  great  man,"  she  proudly  added. 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  he  replied.  "Good-bye. 
I'll  take  him  your  love. — Good-bye!"  and  he  turned 
away. 

"Good-bye,"  she  gaily  replied;  and  yet,  one  look- 
ing closely  would  have  seen  that  this  stalwart  fellow 
was  pleasant  to  her  eyes,  and  as  she  closed  the  door 
to  his  hand  waving  farewell  to  her  from  the  pines,  she 
said,  reflecting  on  his  words: 

"You'll  take  him  my  love,  will  you?  But,  Master 
Gregory,  you  carry  a  freight  of  which  you  do  not 
know  the  measure;  and,  perhaps,  you  never  shall, 
though  you  are  very  brave  and  honest,  and  not  so 
impudent  as  you  used  to  be, — and  I'm  not  so  sure  that 
I  like  you  so  much  better  for  that  either,  Monsieur 
Gregory." 

Then  she  went  and  laid  her  cheek  against  her  moth- 
er's, and  said:  "They've  gone  away  for  big  game, 
mother  dear;  what  shall  be  our  quarry?" 

"My  child,"  the  mother  replied,  "the  story  of  our 
lives  since  last  you  were  with  me  is  my  only  quarry. 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH  55 

I  want  to  know  from  your  own  lips  all  that  you  have 
been  in  that  life  which  once  was  mine  also,  but  far 
away  from  me  now,  even  though  you  come  from  it, 
bringing  its  memories  without  its  messages." 

"Dear,  do  you  think  that  life  there  was  so  sweet  to 
me?  It  meant  as  little  to  your  daughter  as  to  you. 
She  was  always  a  child  of  the  wild  woods.  What 
rustle  of  pretty  gowns  is  pleasant  as  the  silken  shiver 
of  the  maple  leaves  in  summer  at  this  door?  The 
happiest  time  in  that  life  was  when  we  got  away  to 
Holwood  or  Marchurst,  with  the  balls  and  calls  all 
over." 

Mrs.  Malbrouck  smoothed  her  daughter's  hand 
gently  and  smiled  approvingly. 

"But  that  old  life  of  yours,  mother;  what  was  it? 
You  said  that  you  would  tell  me  some  day.  Tell  me 
now.  Grandmother  was  fond  of  me — poor  grand- 
mother! But  she  would  never  tell  me  anything. 
How  I  longed  to  be  back  with  you!  .  .  .  Sometimes 
you  came  to  me  in  my  sleep,  and  called  to  me  to  come 
with  you;  and  then  again,  when  I  was  gay  in  the  sun- 
shine, you  came,  and  only  smiled  but  never  beckoned; 
though  your  eyes  seemed  to  me  very  sad,  and  I  won- 
dered if  mine  would  not  also  become  sad  through  look- 
ing in  them  so — are  they  sad,  mother?"  And  she 
laughed  up  brightly  into  her  mother's  face. 

"No,  dear;  they  are  like  the  stars.  You  ask  me 
for  my  part  in  that  life.  I  will  tell  you  soon,  but  not 
now.  Be  patient.  Do  you  not  tire  of  this  lonely  life? 
Are  you  truly  not  anxious  to  return  to — " 

"'To  the  husks  that  the  swine  did  eat?'  No,  no, 
no;  for,  see:  I  was  born  for  a  free,  strong  life;  the 
prairie  or  the  wild  wood,  or  else  to  live  in  some  far 
castle  in  Welsh  mountains,  where  I  should  never  hear 


56  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

the  voice  of  the  social  Thou  must! — oh,  what  a  must! 
never  to  be  quite  free  or  natural.  To  be  the  slave  of 
the  code.  I  was  born — I  know  not  how!  but  so  long- 
ing for  the  sky,  and  space,  and  endless  woods.  I 
think  I  never  saw  an  animal  but  I  loved  it,  nor  ever 
lounged  the  mornings  out  at  Holwood  but  I  wished  it 
were  a  hut  on  the  mountain  side,  and  you  and  father 
with  me."  Here  she  whispered,  in  a  kind  of  awe: 
"And  yet  to  think  that  Holwood  is  now  mine,  and 
that  I  am  mistress  there,  and  that  I  must  go  back  to 
it — if  only  you  would  go  back  with  me  ...  ah,  dear, 
isn't  it  your  duty  to  go  back  with  me?"  she  added, 
hesitatingly. 

Audrey  Malbrouck  drew  her  daughter  hungrily  to 
her  bosom,  and  said:  "Yes,  dear,  I  will  go  back,  if  it 
chances  that  you  need  me;  but  your  father  and  I 
have  lived  the  best  days  of  our  lives  here,  and  we  are 
content.  But,  my  Margaret,  there  is  another  to  be 
thought  of  too,  is  there  not?  And  in  that  case  is  my 
duty  then  so  clear?" 

The  girl's  hand  closed  on  her  mother's,  and  she  knew 
her  heart  had  been  truly  read. 

Ill 

THE  hunters  pursued  their  way,  swinging  grandly  along 
on  their  snow-shoes,  as  they  made  for  the  Wild  Hawk 
Woods.  It  would  seem  as  if  Malbrouck  was  testing 
Gregory's  strength  and  stride,  for  the  march  that  day 
was  a  long  and  hard  one.  He  was  equal  to  the  test, 
and  even  Big  Moccasin,  the  chief,  grunted  sound  ap- 
proval. But  every  day  brought  out  new  capacities  for 
endurance  and  larger  resources;  so  that  Malbrouck, 
who  had  known  the  clash  of  civilisation  with  barbarian 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH  57 

battle,  and  deeds  both  dour  and  doughty,  and  who 
loved  a  man  of  might,  regarded  this  youth  with  in- 
creasing favour.  By  simple  processes  he  drew  from 
Gregory  his  aims  and  ambitions,  and  found  the  real 
courage  and  power  behind  the  front  of  irony — the  lan- 
guage of  manhood  and  culture  which  was  crusted  by 
free  and  easy  idioms.  Now  and  then  they  saw  moose- 
tracks,  but  they  were  some  days  out  before  they  came 
to  a  moose-yard — a  spot  hoof-beaten  by  the  moose; 
his  home,  from  which  he  strays,  and  to  which  he  re- 
turns at  tunes  like  a  repentant  prodigal.  Now  the 
sport  began.  The  dog-trains  were  put  out  of  view, 
and  Big  Moccasin  and  another  Indian  went  off  imme- 
diately to  explore  the  country  round  about.  A  few 
hours,  and  word  was  brought  that  there  was  a  small 
herd  feeding  not  far  away.  Together  they  crept 
stealthily  within  range  of  the  cattle.  Gregory  Thome's 
blood  leaped  as  he  saw  the  noble  quarry,  with  their 
wide-spread  horns,  sniffing  the  air,  in  which  they  had 
detected  something  unusual.  Their  leader,  a  colossal 
beast,  stamped  with  his  forefoot,  and  threw  back  his 
head  with  a  snort. 

"The  first  shot  belongs  to  you,  Mr.  Thorne,"  said 
Malbrouck.  "In  the  shoulder,  you  know.  You  have 
him  in  good  line.  I'll  take  the  heifer." 

Gregory  showed  all  the  coolness  of  an  old  hunter, 
though  his  lips  twitched  slightly  with  excitement.  He 
took  a  short  but  steady  aim,  and  fired.  The  beast 
plunged  forward  and  then  fell  on  his  knees.  The 
others  broke  away.  Malbrouck  fired  and  killed  a 
heifer,  and  then  all  ran  in  pursuit  as  the  moose  made 
for  the  woods. 

Gregory,  in  the  pride  of  his  first  slaughter,  sprang 
away  towards  the  wounded  leader,  which,  sunk  to  the 


58  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

earth,  was  shaking  its  great  horns  to  and  fro.  When 
at  close  range,  he  raised  his  gun  to  fire  again,  but  the 
moose  rose  suddenly,  and  with  a  wild  bellowing  sound 
rushed  at  Gregory,  who  knew  full  well  that  a  straight 
stroke  from  those  hoofs  would  end  his  moose-hunting 
days.  He  fired,  but  to  no  effect.  He  could  not,  like 
a  toreador,  jump  aside,  for  those  mighty  horns  would 
sweep  too  wide  a  space.  He  dropped  on  his  knees 
swiftly,  and  as  the  great  antlers  almost  touched  him, 
and  he  could  feel  the  roaring  breath  of  the  mad  creature 
in  his  face,  he  slipped  a  cartridge  in,  and  fired  as  he 
swung  round;  but  at  that  instant  a  dark  body  bore 
him  down.  He  was  aware  of  grasping  those  sweeping 
horns,  conscious  of  a  blow  which  tore  the  flesh  from 
his  chest;  and  then  his  knife — how  came  it  in  his  hand? 
— with  the  instinct  of  the  true  hunter.  He  plunged  it 
once,  twice,  past  a  foaming  mouth,  into  that  firm  body, 
and  then  both  fell  together;  each  having  fought  val- 
iantly after  his  kind. 

Gregory  dragged  himself  from  beneath  the  still 
heaving  body,  and  stretched  to  his  feet;  but  a  blind- 
ness came,  and  the  next  knowledge  he  had  was  of 
brandy  being  poured  slowly  between  his  teeth,  and  of 
a  voice  coming  through  endless  distances:  "A  fighter, 
a  born  fighter,"  it  said.  "The  pluck  of  Lucifer — good 
boy!" 

Then  the  voice  left  those  humming  spaces  of  in- 
finity, and  said:  "Tilt  him  this  way  a  little,  Big  Moc- 
casin. There,  press  firmly,  so.  Now  the  band  steady 
— together — tighter — now  the  withes — a  little  higher 
up — cut  them  here."  There  was  a  slight  pause,  and 
then:  "There,  that's  as  good  as  an  army  surgeon 
could  do  it.  He'll  be  as  sound  as  a  bell  in  two  weeks. 
Eh,  well,  how  do  you  feel  now?  Better?  That's 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH  59 

right!  Like  to  be  on  your  feet,  would  you?  Wait. 
Here,  a  sup  of  this.  There  you  are.  .  .  .  Well?" 

"Well,"  said  the  young  man,  faintly,  "he  was  a 
beauty." 

Malbrouck  looked  at  him  a  moment,  thoughtfully, 
and  then  said:  "Yes,  he  was  a  beauty." 

"I  want  a  dozen  more  like  him,  and  then  I  shall  be 
able  to  drop  'em  as  neat  as  you  do." 

"H'm!  the  order  is  large.  I'm  afraid  we  shall  have 
to  fill  it  at  some  other  tune;"  and  Malbrouck  smiled 
a  little  grimly. 

"What!  only  one  moose  to  take  back  to  the  Height 
of  Land,  to — "  something  in  the  eye  of  the  other 
stopped  hun. 

"To?  Yes,  to?"  and  now  the  eye  had  a  suggestion 
of  humour. 

"To  show  I'm  not  a  tenderfoot." 

"Yes,  to  show  you're  not  a  tenderfoot.  I  fancy 
that  will  be  hardly  necessary.  Oh,  you  will  be  up, 
eh?  Well!" 

"Well,  I'm  a  tottering  imbecile.  What's  the  matter 
with  my  legs? — my  prophetic  soul,  it  hurts!  Oh,  I 
see;  that's  where  the  old  warrior's  hoof  caught  me 
sideways.  Now,  I'll  tell  you  what,  I'm  going  to  have 
another  moose  to  take  back  to  Marigold  Lake." 

"Oh?" 

"Yes.    I'm  going  to  take  back  a  young,  live  moose." 

"A  significant  ambition.  For  what? — a  sacrifice  to 
the  gods  you  have  offended  in  your  classic  existence?" 

"Both.  A  peace-offering,  and  a  sacrifice  to — a  god- 
dess." 

"Young  man,"  said  the  other,  the  light  of  a  smile 
playing  on  his  lips,  "'Prosperity  be  thy  page!'  Big 
Moccasin,  what  of  this  young  live  moose?" 


60  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

The  Indian  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"But  I  tell  you  I  shall  have  that  live  moose,  if  I 
have  to  stay  here  to  see  it  grow." 

And  Malbrouck  liked  his  pluck,  and  wished  him 
good  luck.  And  the  good  luck  came.  They  travelled 
back  slowly  to  the  Height  of  Land,  making  a  circuit. 
For  a  week  they  saw  no  more  moose;  but  meanwhile 
Gregory's  hurt  quickly  healed.  They  had  now  left 
only  eight  days  in  which  to  get  back  to  Dog  Ear  River 
and  Marigold  Lake.  If  the  young  moose  was  to  come 
it  must  come  soon.  It  came  soon. 

They  chanced  upon  a  moose-yard,  and  while  the  In- 
dians were  beating  the  woods,  Malbrouck  and  Gregory 
watched. 

Soon  a  cow  and  a  young  moose  came  swinging  down 
to  the  embankment.  Malbrouck  whispered :  "Now  if 
you  must  have  your  live  moose,  here's  a  lasso.  I'll 
bring  down  the  cow.  The  young  one's  horns  are  not 
large.  Remember,  no  pulling.  I'll  do  that.  Keep 
your  broken  chest  and  bad  arm  safe.  Now!" 

Down  came  the  cow  with  a  plunge  into  the  yard — 
dead.  The  lasso,  too,  was  over  the  horns  of  the  calf, 
and  in  an  instant  Malbrouck  was  swinging  away  with 
it  over  the  snow.  It  was  making  for  the  trees — exactly 
what  Malbrouck  desired.  He  deftly  threw  the  rope 
round  a  sapling,  but  not  too  taut,  lest  the  moose's 
horns  should  be  injured.  The  plucky  animal  now 
turned  on  him.  He  sprang  behind  a  tree,  and  at  that 
instant  he  heard  the  thud  of  hoofs  behind  him.  He 
turned  to  see  a  huge  bull-moose  bounding  towards 
him.  He  was  between  two  fires,  and  quite  unarmed. 
Those  hoofs  had  murder  in  them.  But  at  the  instant 
a  rifle  shot  rang  out,  and  he  only  caught  the  forward 
rush  of  the  antlers  as  the  beast  fell. 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH  61 

The  young  moose  now  had  ceased  its  struggles,  and 
came  forward  to  the  dead  bull  with  that  hollow  sound 
of  mourning  peculiar  to  its  kind.  Though  it  after- 
wards struggled  once  or  twice  to  be  free,  it  became 
docile  and  was  easily  taught,  when  its  anger  and  fear 
were  over. 

And  Gregory  Thorne  had  his  live  moose.  He  had 
also,  by  that  splendid  shot,  achieved  with  one  arm, 
saved  Malbrouck  from  peril,  perhaps  from  death. 

They  drew  up  before  the  house  at  Marigold  Lake  on 
the  afternoon  of  the  day  before  Christmas,  a  triumphal 
procession.  The  moose  was  driven,  a  peaceful  cap- 
tive with  a  wreath  of  cedar  leaves  around  its  neck — the 
humourous  conception  of  Gregory  Thorne.  Mal- 
brouck had  announced  their  coming  by  a  blast  from 
his  horn,  and  Margaret  was  standing  in  the  doorway 
wrapped  in  furs,  which  may  have  come  originally  from 
Hudson's  Bay,  but  which  had  been  deftly  re-manu- 
factured in  Regent  Street. 

Astonishment,  pleasure,  beamed  in  her  eyes.  She 
clapped  her  hands  gaily,  and  cried:  " Welcome,  wel- 
come, merry-men  all!"  She  kissed  her  father;  she 
called  to  her  mother  to  come  and  see;  then  she  said 
to  Gregory,  with  arch  raillery,  as  she  held  out  her  hand : 
"Oh,  companion  of  hunters,  comest  thou  like  Jacques 
in  Arden  from  dropping  the  trustful  tear  upon  the 
prey  of  others,  or  bringest  thou  quarry  of  thine  own? 
Art  thou  a  warrior  sated  with  spoil,  master  of  the 
sports,  spectator  of  the  fight,  Prince,  or  Pistol?  An- 
swer, what  art  thou?" 

And  he,  with  a  touch  of  his  old  insolence,  though 
with  something  of  irony  too,  for  he  had  hoped  for  a 
different  fashion  of  greeting,  said : 

"All,  lady,  all!    The  Olympian  all!    The  player  of 


62  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

many  parts.  I  am  Touchstone,  Jacques,  and  yet 
Orlando  too." 

"And  yet  Orlando  too,  my  daughter,"  said  Mal- 
brouck,  gravely.  "He  saved  your  father  from  the  hoofs 
of  a  moose  bent  on  sacrifice.  Had  your  father  his  eye, 
his  nerve,  his  power  to  shoot  with  one  arm  a  bull 
moose  at  long  range,  so! — he  would  not  refuse  to  be 
called  a  great  hunter,  but  wear  the  title  gladly." 

Margaret  Malbrouck's  face  became  anxious  in- 
stantly. "He  saved  you  from  danger — from  injury, 
father?"  she  slowly  said,  and  looked  earnestly  at 
Gregory;  "but  why  to  shoot  with  one  arm  only?" 

"Because  in  a  fight  of  his  own  with  a  moose — a 
hand-to-hand  fight — he  had  a  bad  moment  with  the 
hoofs  of  the  beast." 

And  this  young  man,  who  had  a  reputation  for  in- 
solence, blushed,  so  that  the  paleness  which  the  girl 
now  noticed  in  his  face  was  banished;  and  to  turn 
the  subject  he  interposed: 

"Here  is  the  live  moose  that  I  said  I  should  bring. 
Now  say  that  he's  a  beauty,  please.  Your  father 
and  I—" 

But  Malbrouck  interrupted: 

"He  lassoed  it  with  his  one  arm,  Margaret.  He 
was  determined  to  do  it  himself,  because,  being  a 
superstitious  gentleman,  .as  well  as  a  hunter,  he  had 
some  foolish  notion  that  this  capture  would  propitiate 
a  goddess  whom  he  imagined  required  offerings  of 
the  kind." 

"It  is  the  privilege  of  the  gods  to  be  merciful,"  she 
said.  "This  peace-offering  should  propitiate  the  angri- 
est, cruellest  goddess  in  the  universe;  and  for  one  who 
was  neither  angry  nor  really  cruel — well,  she  should 
be  satisfied  .  .  .  altogether  satisfied,"  she  added,  as 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH  63 

she  put  her  cheek  against  the  warm  fur  of  the  captive's 
neck,  and  let  it  feel  her  hand  with  its  lips. 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute,  and  then  with  his 
old  gay  spirit  all  returned,  and  as  if  to  give  an  air  not 
too  serious  to  the  situation,  Gregory,  remembering 
his  Euripides,  said: 

"  let  the  steer  bleed, 

And  the  rich  altars,  as  they  pay  their  vows, 
Breathe  incense  to  the  gods:  for  me,  I  rise 
To  better  life,  and  grateful  own  the  blessing." 

"A  pagan  thought  for  a  Christmas  Eve,"  she  said 
to  him,  with  her  fingers  feeling  for  the  folds  of  silken 
flesh  in  the  throat  of  the  moose;  "but  wounded  men 
must  be  humoured.  And,  mother  dear,  here  are  our 
Argonauts  returned;  and — and  now  I  think  I  will  go." 

With  a  quick  kiss  on  her  father's  cheek — not  so 
quick  but  he  caught  the  tear  that  ran  through  her 
happy  smile — she  vanished  into  the  house. 

That  night  there  was  gladness  in  this  home.  Mirth 
sprang  to  the  lips  of  the  men  like  foam  on  a  beaker 
of  wine,  so  that  the  evening  ran  towards  midnight 
swiftly.  All  the  tale  of  the  hunt  was  given  by  Mal- 
brouck  to  joyful  ears;  for  the  mother  lived  again  her 
youth  in  the  sunrise  of  this  romance  which  was  being 
sped  before  her  eyes;  and  the  father,  knowing  that 
in  this  world  there  is  nothing  so  good  as  courage, 
nothing  so  base  as  the  shifting  eye,  looked  on  the 
young  man,  and  was  satisfied,  and  told  his  story  well; 
—told  it  as  a  brave  man  would  tell  it,  bluntly  as  to 
deeds  done,  warmly  as  to  the  pleasures  of  good  sport, 
directly  as  to  all.  In  the  eye  of  the  young  man  there 
had  come  the  glance  of  larger  life,  of  a  new-developed 
manhood.  When  he  felt  that  dun  body  crashing  on 


64  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

him,  and  his  life  closing  with  its  strength,  and  ran  the 
good  knife  home,  there  flashed  through  his  mind  how 
much  life  meant  to  the  dying,  how  much  it  ought  to 
mean  to  the  living;  and  then  this  girl,  this  Margaret, 
swam  before  his  eyes — and  he  had  been  graver  since. 

He  knew,  as  truly  as  if  she  had  told  him,  that  she 
could  never  mate  with  any  man  who  was  a  loiterer 
on  God's  highway,  who  could  live  life  without  some 
sincerity  in  his  aims.  It  all  came  to  him  again  in  this 
room,  so  austere  hi  its  appointments,  yet  so  gracious, 
so  full  of  the  spirit  of  humanity  without  a  note  of 
ennui,  or  the  rust  of  careless  deeds.  As  this  thought 
grew  he  looked  at  the  face  of  the  girl,  then  at  the  faces 
of  the  father  and  mother,  and  the  memory  of  his 
boast  came  back — that  he  would  win  the  stake  he 
laid,  to  know  the  story  of  John  and  Audrey  Malbrouck 
before  this  coming  Christmas  morning.  With  a  faint 
smile  at  his  own  past  insolent  self,  he  glanced  at  the 
clock.  It  was  eleven.  "I  have  lost  my  bet,"  he  un- 
consciously said  aloud. 

He  was  roused  by  John  Malbrouck  remarking: 
"Yes,  you  have  lost  your  bet?  Well,  what  was  it?" 

The  youth,  the  childlike  quality  in  him,  flushed  his 
face  deeply,  and  then,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  frank- 
ness, he  said: 

"I  did  not  know  that  I  had  spoken.  As  for  the 
bet,  I  deserve  to  be  thrashed  for  ever  having  made  it; 
but,  duffer  as  I  am,  I  want  you  to  know  that  I'm 
something  worse  than  duffer.  The  first  tune  I  met 
you  I  made  a  bet  that  I  should  know  your  history 
before  Christmas  Day.  I  haven't  a  word  to  say  for 
myself.  I'm  contemptible.  I  beg  your  pardon;  for 
your  history  is  none  of  my  business.  I  was  really 
interested;  that's  all;  but  your  lives,  I  believe  it,  as  if 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH  65 

it  was  in  the  Bible,  have  been  great — yes,  that's  the 
word!  and  I'm  a  better  chap  for  having  known  you, 
though,  perhaps,  I've  known  you  all  along,  because, 
you  see,  I've —  I've  been  friends  with  your  daughter 
— and — well,  really  I  haven't  anything  else  to  say, 
except  that  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me,  and  let  me  know 
you  always." 

Malbrouck  regarded  him  for  a  moment  with  a  grave 
smile,  and  then  looked  toward  his  wife.  Both  turned 
their  glances  quickly  upon  Margaret,  whose  eyes  were 
on  the  fire.  The  look  upon  her  face  was  very  gentle; 
something  new  and  beautiful  had  come  to  reign  there. 

A  moment,  and  Malbrouck  spoke:  "You  did  what 
was  youthful  and  curious,  but  not  wrong;  and  you 
shall  not  lose  your  hazard.  1 — " 

"No,  do  not  tell  me,"  Gregory  interrupted;  "only 
let  me  be  pardoned." 

"As  I  said,  lad,  you  shall  not  lose  your  hazard.  I 
will  tell  you  the  brief  tale  of  two  lives." 

"But,  I  beg  of  you!  For  the  instant  I  forgot.  I 
have  more  to  confess."  And  Gregory  told  them  in 
substance  what  Pretty  Pierre  had  disclosed  to  him  in 
the  Rocky  Mountains. 

When  he  had  finished,  Malbrouck  said:  "My  tale 
then  is  briefer  still:  I  was  a  common  soldier,  English 
and  humble  by  my  mother,  French  and  noble  through 
my  father — noble,  but  poor.  In  Burmah,  at  an  out- 
break among  the  natives,  I  rescued  my  colonel  from 
immediate  and  horrible  death,  though  he  died  in  my 
arms  from  the  injuries  he  received.  His  daughter  too, 
it  was  my  fortune,  through  God's  Providence,  to  save 
from  great  danger.  She  became  my  wife.  You  re- 
member that  song  you  sang  the  day  we  first  met  you? 
It  brought  her  father  back  to  mind  painfully.  When 


66  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

we  came  to  England  her  people — her  mother — would 
not  receive  me.  For  myself  I  did  not  care;  for  my 
wife,  that  was  another  matter.  She  loved  me  and  pre- 
ferred to  go  with  me  anywhere;  to  a  new  country, 
preferably.  We  came  to  Canada. 

"We  were  forgotten  in  England.  Tune  moves  so 
fast,  even  if  the  records  hi  red-books  stand.  OUT 
daughter  went  to  her  grandmother  to  be  brought  up 
and  educated  in  England — though  it  was  a  sore  trial 
to  us  both — that  she  might  fill  nobly  that  place  in 
life  for  which  she  is  destined.  With  all  she  learned 
she  did  not  forget  us.  We  were  happy  save  in  her 
absence.  We  are  happy  now;  not  because  she  is  mis- 
tress of  Holwood  and  Marchurst — for  her  grandmother 
and  another  is  dead — but  because  such  as  she  is  our 
daughter,  and — " 

He  said  no  more.  Margaret  was  beside  him,  and 
her  fingers  were  on  his  lips. 

Gregory  came  to  his  feet  suddenly,  and  with  a 
troubled  face. 

"Mistress  of  Holwood  and  Marchurst!"  he  said; 
and  his  mind  ran  over  his  own  great  deficiencies,  and 
the  list  of  eligible  and  anxious  suitors  that  Park  Lane 
could  muster.  He  had  never  thought  of  her  in  the 
light  of  a  great  heiress. 

But  he  looked  down  at  her  as  she  knelt  at  her 
father's  knee,  her  eyes  upturned  to  his,  and  the  tide 
of  his  fear  retreated;  for  he  saw  in  them  the  same  look 
she  had  given  him  when  she  leaned  her  cheek  against 
the  moose's  neck  that  afternoon. 

When  the  clock  struck  twelve  upon  a  moment's 
pleasant  silence,  John  Malbrouck  said  to  Gregory 
Thorne: 

"Yes,  you  have  won  your  Christmas  hazard,  my  boy." 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH  67 

But  a  softer  voice  than  his  whispered: 

"Are  you — content — Gregory?" 

The  Spirits  of  Christmas-tide,  whose  paths  lie  north 
as  well  as  south,  smiled  as  they  wrote  his  answer  on 
their  tablets;  for  they  knew,  as  the  man  said,  that  he 
would  always  be  content,  and — which  is  more  hi  the 
sight  of  angels — that  the  woman  would  be  content  also. 


A  PEAIKIE  VAGABOND 


A  PRAIRIE  VAGABOND 

LITTLE  HAMMER  was  not  a  success.  He  was  a  disap- 
pointment to  the  missionaries;  the  officials  of  the 
Hudson's  Bay  Company  said  he  was  "no  good;"  the 
Mounted  Police  kept  an  eye  on  him;  the  Crees  and 
Blackfeet  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him;  and 
the  half-breeds  were  profane  regarding  him.  But 
Little  Hammer  was  oblivious  to  any  depreciation  of 
his  merits,  and  would  not  be  suppressed.  He  loved 
the  Hudson's  Bay  Company's  Post  at  Yellow  Quill 
with  an  unwavering  love;  he  ranged  the  half-breed 
hospitality  of  Red  Deer  River,  regardless  of  it  being 
thrown  at  him  as  he  in  turn  threw  it  at  his  dog;  he 
saluted  Sergeant  Gellatly  with  a  familiar  How!  when- 
ever he  saw  him;  he  borrowed  tdbac  of  the  half-breed 
women,  and,  strange  to  say,  paid  it  back — with  other 
tdbac  got  by  daily  petition,  until  his  prayer  was  granted, 
at  the  H.  B.  C.  Post.  He  knew  neither  shame  nor 
defeat,  but  where  women  were  concerned  he  kept  his 
word,  and  was  singularly  humble.  It  was  a  woman 
that  induced  him  to  be  baptised.  The  day  after  the 
ceremony  he  begged  "the  loan  of  a  dollar  for  the  love 
of  God"  from  the  missionary;  and  being  refused, 
straightway,  and  for  the  only  time  it  was  known  of 
him,  delivered  a  rumbling  torrent  of  half-breed  pro- 
fanity, mixed  with  the  unusual  oaths  of  the  barracks. 
Then  he  walked  away  with  great  humility.  There 
was  no  swagger  about  Little  Hammer.  He  was  sun- 
ply  unquenchable  and  continuous.  He  sometimes  got 

71 


72  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

drunk;  but  on  such  occasions  he  sat  down,  or  lay  down, 
in  the  most  convenient  place,  and,  like  Csesar  beside 
Pompey's  statue,  wrapped  his  mantle  about  his  face 
and  forgot  the  world.  He  was  a  vagabond  Indian, 
abandoned  yet  self-contained,  outcast  yet  gregarious. 
No  social  ostracism  unnerved  him,  no  threats  of  the 
H.  B.  C.  officials  moved  him;  and  when  in  the  winter 
of  187 —  he  was  driven  from  one  place  to  another, 
starving  and  homeless,  and  came  at  last  emaciated  and 
nearly  dead  to  the  Post  at  Yellow  Quill,  he  asked  for 
food  and  shelter  as  if  it  were  his  right,  and  not  as  a 
mendicant. 

One  night,  shortly  after  his  reception  and  restora- 
tion, he  was  sitting  in  the  store  silently  smoking  the 
Company's  tabac.  Sergeant  Gellatly  entered.  Little 
Hammer  rose,  offered  his  hand,  and  muttered,  "How!" 

The  Sergeant  thrust  his  hand  aside,  and  said  sharply: 
"Whin  I  take  y'r  hand,  Little  Hammer,  it'll  be  to  put 
a  grip  an  y'r  wrists  that'll  stay  there  till  y'are  in  quar- 
ters out  of  which  y'll  come  nayther  winter  nor  summer. 
Put  that  in  y'r  pipe  and  smoke  it,  y'  scamp!" 

Little  Hammer  had  a  bad  tune  at  the  Post  that 
night.  Lounging  half-breeds  reviled  him;  the  H.  B.  C. 
officials  rebuked  him;  and  travellers  who  were  coming 
and  going  shared  in  the  derision,  as  foolish  people  do 
where  one  is  brow-beaten  by  many.  At  last  a  trap- 
per entered,  whom  seeing,  Little  Hammer  drew  his 
blanket  up  about  his  head.  The  trapper  sat  down 
very  near  Little  Hammer,  and  began  to  smoke.  He 
laid  his  plug-tabac  and  his  knife  on  the  counter  beside 
him.  Little  Hammer  reached  over  and  took  the  knife, 
putting  it  swiftly  within  his  blanket.  The  trapper  saw 
the  act,  and,  turning  sharply  on  the  Indian,  called 
him  a  thief.  Little  Hammer  chuckled  strangely  and 


A  PRAIRIE  VAGABOND  73 

said  nothing;  but  his  eyes  peered  sharply  above  the 
blanket.  A  laugh  went  round  the  store.  In  an  in- 
stant the  trapper,  with  a  loud  oath,  caught  at  the 
Indian's  throat;  but  as  the  blanket  dropped  back  he 
gave  a  startled  cry.  There  was  the  flash  of  a  knife, 
and  he  fell  back  dead.  Little  Hammer  stood  above 
him,  smiling,  for  a  moment,  and  then,  turning  to  Ser- 
geant Gellatly,  held  out  his  arms  silently  for  the 
handcuffs. 

The  next  day  two  men  were  lost  on  the  prairies. 
One  was  Sergeant  Gellatly;  the  other  was  Little 
Hammer.  The  horses  they  rode  travelled  so  close 
that  the  leg  of  the  Indian  crowded  the  leg  of  the  white 
man;  and  the  wilder  the  storm  grew,  the  closer  still 
they  rode.  A  poudre  day,  with  its  steely  air  and  fatal 
frost,  was  an  ill  thing  in  the  world;  but  these  entan- 
gling blasts,  these  wild  curtains  of  snow,  were  desolat- 
ing even  unto  death.  The  sun  above  was  smothered; 
the  earth  beneath  was  trackless;  the  compass  stood 
for  loss  all  round. 

What  could  Sergeant  Gellatly  expect,  riding  with  a 
murderer  on  his  left  hand:  a  heathen  that  had  sent  a 
knife  through  the  heart  of  one  of  the  lords  of  the 
North?  What  should  the  gods  do  but  frown,  or  the 
elements  be  at,  but  howling  on  then*  path?  What 
should  one  hope  for  but  that  vengeance  should  be 
taken  out  of  the  hands  of  mortals,  and  be  delivered 
to  the  angry  spirits? 

But  if  the  gods  were  angry  at  the  Indian,  why 
should  Sergeant  Gellatly  only  sway  to  and  fro,  and 
now  laugh  recklessly,  and  now  fall  sleepily  forward 
on  the  neck  of  his  horse;  while  the  Indian  rode  straight, 
and  neither  wavered  nor  wandered  in  mind,  but  at 
last  slipped  from  his  horse  and  walked  beside  the 


74  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

other?  It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  soldier  heard, 
"Sergeant  Gellatly,  Sergeant  Gellatly,"  called  through 
the  blast;  and  he  thought  it  came  from  the  skies,  or 
from  some  other  world.  "Me  darlin',"  he  said,  "have 
y'  come  to  me?"  But  the  voice  called  again:  "Ser- 
geant Gellatly,  keep  awake!  keep  awake!  You  sleep, 
you  die;  that's  it.  Holy.  Yes.  How!"  Then  he 
knew  that  it  was  Little  Hammer  calling  in  his  ear,  and 
shaking  him;  that  the  Indian  was  dragging  him  from  his 
horse  ...  his  revolver,  where  was  it?  he  had  forgotten 
...  he  nodded  .  .  .  nodded.  But  Little  Hammer 
said:  "Walk,  hell!  you  walk,  yes;"  and  Little  Hammer 
struck  him  again  and  again;  but  one  arm  of  the  Indian 
was  under  his  shoulder  and  around  him,  and  the  voice 
was  anxious  and  kind.  Slowly  it  came  to  him  that 
Little  Hammer  was  keeping  him  alive  against  the  will 
of  the  spirits — but  why  should  they  strike  him  instead 
of  the  Indian?  Was  there  any  sun  in  the  world?  Had 
there  ever  been?  or  fire  or  heat  anywhere,  or  anything 
but  wind  and  snow  in  all  God's  universe?  .  .  .  Yes, 
there  were  bells  ringing — soft  bells  of  a  village  church; 
and  there  was  incense  burning — most  sweet  it  was! 
and  the  coals  in  the  censer — how  beautiful,  how  com- 
forting! He  laughed  with  joy  again,  and  he  forgot 
how  cold,  how  maliciously  cold,  he  had  been;  he  for- 
got how  dreadful  that  hour  was  before  he  became 
warm;  when  he  was  pierced  by  myriad  needles  through 
the  body,  and  there  was  an  incredible  aching  at  his 
heart. 

And  yet  something  kept  thundering  on  his  body,  and 
a  harsh  voice  shrieked  at  him,  and  there  were  many 
lights  dancing  over  his  shut  eyes;  and  then  curtains 
of  darkness  were  dropped,  and  centuries  of  oblivion 
came;  and  then — then  his  eyes  opened  to  a  comforting 


A  PRAIRIE  VAGABOND  75 

silence,  and  some  one  was  putting  brandy  between  his 
teeth,  and  after  a  time  he  heard  a  voice  say:  "Bien, 
you  see  he  was  a  murderer,  but  he  save  his  captor. 
Voild,  such  a  heathen!  But  you  will,  all  the  same, 
bring  him  to  justice — you  call  it  that?  But  we  shall 
see." 

Then  some  one  replied,  and  the  words  passed  through 
an  outer  web  of  darkness  and  an  inner  haze  of  dreams. 
"The  feet  of  Little  Hammer  were  like  wood  on  the 
floor  when  you  brought  the  two  in,  Pretty  Pierre — 
and  lucky  for  them  you  found  them.  .  .  .  The  thing 
would  read  right  in  a  book,  but  it's  not  according  to 
the  run  of  things  up  here,  not  by  a  damned  sight!" 

"Private  Bradshaw,"  said  the  first  voice  again, 
"you  do  not  know  Little  Hammer,  nor  that  story  of 
him.  You  wait  for  the  trial.  I  have  something  to 
say.  You  think  Little  Hammer  care  for  the  prison, 
the  rope? — Ah,  when  a  man  wait  five  years  to  kill — 
so!  and  it  is  done,  he  is  glad  sometimes  when  it  is  all 
over.  Sergeant  Gellatly  there  will  wish  he  went  to 
sleep  forever  in  the  snow,  if  Little  Hammer  come  to 
the  rope.  Yes,  I  think." 

And  Sergeant  Gellatly's  brain  was  so  numbed  that 
he  did  not  grasp  the  meaning  of  the  words,  though 
he  said  them  over  and  over  again.  .  .  .  Was  he  dead? 
No,  for  his  body  was  beating,  beating  .  .  .  well,  it 
didn't  matter  .  .  .  nothing  mattered  .  .  .  he  was  sink- 
ing to  forgetfulness  .  .  .  sinking. 

So,  for  hours,  for  weeks — it  might  have  been  for 
years — and  then  he  woke,  clear  and  knowing,  to  "the 
unnatural,  intolerable  day" — it  was  that  to  him,  with 
Little  Hammer  in  prison.  It  was  March  when  his 
memory  and  vigour  vanished;  it  was  May  when  he 
grasped  the  full  remembrance  of  himself,  and  of  that 


76  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

fight  for  life  on  the  prairie:  of  the  hands  that  smote 
him  that  he  should  not  sleep;  of  Little  Hammer  the 
slayer,  who  had  driven  death  back  discomfited,  and 
brought  his  captor  safe  to  where  his  own  captivity  and 
punishment  awaited  him. 

When  Sergeant  Gellatly  appeared  in  court  at  the 
trial  he  refused  to  bear  witness  against  Little  Hammer. 
"D'  ye  think — does  wan  av  y'  think — that  I'll  speak 
a  word  agin  the  man — haythen  or  no  haythen — that 
pulled  me  out  of  me  tomb  and  put  me  betune  the 
barrack  quilts?  Here's  the  stripes  aff  me  arm,  and 
to  gaol  I'll  go;  but  for  what  wint  before  I  clapt  the 
iron  on  his  wrists,  good  or  avil,  divil  a  word  will  I  say. 
An'  here's  me  left  hand,  and  there's  me  right  fut,  and 
an  eye  of  me  too,  that  I'd  part  with,  for  the  cause  of 
him  that's  done  a  trick  that  your  honour  wouldn't  do 
— an'  no  shame  to  y'  aither — an'  y'd  been  where  Little 
Hammer  was  with  me." 

His  honour  did  not  reply  immediately,  but  he  looked 
meditatively  at  Little  Hammer  before  he  said  quietly, 
— "Perhaps  not,  perhaps  not." 

And  Little  Hammer,  thinking  he  was  expected  to 
speak,  drew  his  blanket  up  closely  about  him  and 
grunted,  "How!" 

Pretty  Pierre,  the  notorious  half-breed,  was  then 
called.  He  kissed  the  Book,  making  the  sign  of  the 
Cross  swiftly  as  he  did  so,  and  unheeding  the  ironical, 
if  hesitating,  laughter  in  the  court.  Then  he  said: 
"Bien,  I  will  tell  you  the  story — the  whole  truth.  I 
was  in  the  Stony  Plains.  Little  Hammer  was  'good 
Injin'  then.  .  .  .  Yes,  sacre!  it  is  a  fool  who  smiles  at 
that.  I  have  kissed  the  Book.  Dam!  .  .  .  He  would 
be  chief  soon  when  old  Two  Tails  die.  He  was  proud, 
then,  Little  Hammer.  He  go  not  to  the  Post  for  drink; 


A  PRAIRIE  VAGABOND  77 

he  sell  not  next  year's  furs  for  this  year's  rations;  he 
shoot  straight." 

Here  Little  Hammer  stood  up  and  said:  "There  is 
too  much  talk.  Let  me  be.  It  is  all  done.  The  sun 
is  set — I  care  not — I  have  killed  him;"  and  then  he 
drew  his  blanket  about  his  face  and  sat  down. 

But  Pierre  continued:  "Yes,  you  killed  him — quick, 
after  five  years — that  is  so;  but  you  will  not  speak  to 
say  why.  Then,  I  will  speak.  The  Injins  say  Little 
Hammer  will  be  great  man;  he  will  bring  the  tribes 
together;  and  all  the  time  Little  Hammer  was  strong 
and  silent  and  wise.  Then  Brigley  the  trapper — well, 
he  was  a  thief  and  coward.  He  come  to  Little  Hammer 
and  say,  'I  am  hungry  and  tired.'  Little  Hammer 
give  him  food  and  sleep.  He  go  away.  Bien,  he  come 
back  and  say, — 'It  is  far  to  go;  I  have  no  horse.'  So 
Little  Hammer  give  him  a  horse  too.  Then  he  come 
back  once  again  in  the  night  when  Little  Hammer  was 
away,  and  before  morning  he  go;  but  when  Little 
Hammer  return,  there  lay  his  bride — only  an  Injin 
girl,  but  his  bride— dead!  You  see?  Eh?  No?  Well, 
the  Captain  at  the  Post  he  says  it  was  the  same  as 
Lucrece. — I  say  it  was  like  hell.  It  is  not  much  to 
kill  or  to  die — that  is  in  the  game;  but  that  other, 
mon  Dieu!  Little  Hammer,  you  see  how  he  hide  his 
head:  not  because  he  kill  the  Tarquin,  that  Brigley, 
but  because  he  is  a  poor  vaurien  now,  and  he  once 
was  happy  and  had  a  wife.  .  .  .  What  would  you  do, 
judge  honourable?  .  .  .  Little  Hammer,  I  shake  your 
hand — so — How ! ' ' 

But  Little  Hammer  made  no  reply. 

The  judge  sentenced  Little  Hammer  to  one  month 
in  gaol.  He  might  have  made  it  one  thousand  months 
— it  would  have  been  the  same;  for  when,  on  the  last 


78  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

morning  of  that  month,  they  opened  the  door  to  set 
him  free,  he  was  gone.  That  is,  the  Little  Hammer 
whom  the  high  gods  knew  was  gone;  though  an  ill- 
nourished,  self-strangled  body  was  upright  by  the  wall. 
The  vagabond  had  paid  his  penalty,  but  desired  no 
more  of  earth. 

Upon  the  door  was  scratched  the  one  word: 

How! 


SHE  OF  THE  TEIPLE  CHEVKON 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON 

BETWEEN  Archangel's  Rise  and  Pardon's  Drive  there 
was  but  one  house.  It  was  a  tavern,  and  it  was 
known  as  Galbraith's  Place.  There  was  no  man  in 
the  Western  Territories  to  whom  it  was  not  familiar. 
There  was  no  traveller  who  crossed  the  lonely  waste 
but  was  glad  of  it,  and  would  go  twenty  miles  out  of 
his  way  to  rest  a  night  on  a  corn-husk  bed  which  Jen 
Galbraith's  hands  had  filled,  to  eat  a  meal  that  she 
had  prepared,  and  to  hear  Peter  Galbraith's  tales  of 
early  days  on  the  plains,  when  buffalo  were  like  clouds 
on  the  horizon,  when  Indians  were  many  and  hostile, 
and  when  men  called  the  great  western  prairie  a  wedge 
of  the  American  desert. 

It  was  night  on  the  prairie.  Jen  Galbraith  stood  in 
the  doorway  of  the  tavern  sitting-room  and  watched 
a  mighty  beacon  of  flame  rising  before  her,  a  hundred 
yards  away.  Every  night  this  beacon  made  a  circle 
of  light  on  the  prairie,  and  Galbraith's  Place  was  in 
the  centre  of  the  circle.  Summer  and  winter  it  burned 
from  dusk  to  daylight.  No  hand  fed  it  but  that  of 
Nature.  It  never  failed;  it  was  a  cruse  that  was  never 
empty.  Upon  Jen  Galbraith  it  had  a  weird  influence. 
It  grew  to  be  to  her  a  kind  of  spiritual  companion, 
though,  perhaps,  she  would  not  so  have  named  it. 
This  flaming  gas,  bubbling  up  from  the  depths  of  the 
earth  on  the  lonely  plains,  was  to  her  a  mysterious 
presence  grateful  to  her;  the  receiver  of  her  thoughts, 
the  daily  necessity  in  her  life.  It  filled  her  too  with  a 

81 


82  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

kind  of  awe;  for,  when  it  burned,  she  seemed  not  her- 
self alone,  but  another  self  of  her  whom  she  could  not 
quite  understand.  Yet  she  was  no  mere  dreamer. 
Upon  her  practical  strength  of  body  and  mind  had  come 
that  rugged  poetical  sense,  which  touches  all  who  live 
the  life  of  mountain  and  prairie.  She  showed  it  in  her 
speech;  it  had  a  measured  cadence.  She  expressed 
it  in  her  body;  it  had  a  free  and  rhythmic  movement. 
And  not  Jen  alone,  but  many  another  dweller  on  the 
prairie,  looked  upon  it  with  a  superstitious  reverence 
akin  to  worship.  A  blizzard  could  not  quench  it.  A 
gale  of  wind  only  fed  its  strength.  A  rain-storm  made 
a  mist  about  it,  in  which  it  was  enshrined  like  a  god. 

Peter  Galbraith  could  not  fully  understand  his 
daughter's  fascination  for  this  Prairie  Star,  as  the 
North-West  people  called  it.  It  was  not  without 
its  natural  influence  upon  him;  but  he  regarded  it 
most  as  a  comfortable  advertisement,  and  he  lamented 
every  day  that  this  never-failing  gas  well  was  not 
near  a  large  population,  and  he  still  its  owner.  He 
was  one  of  that  large  family  in  the  earth  who  would 
turn  the  best  things  in  their  lives  into  merchandise. 
As  it  was,  it  brought  much  grist  to  his  mill;  for  he 
was  not  averse  to  the  exercise  of  the  insinuating 
pleasures  of  euchre  and  poker  in  his  tavern;  and  the 
hospitality  which  ranchmen,  cowboys,  and  travellers 
sought  at  his  hand  was  often  prolonged,  and  also  re- 
munerative to  him. 

Pretty  Pierre,  who  had  his  patrol  as  gamester  de- 
fined, made  semi-annual  visits  to  Galbraith's  Place. 
It  occurred  generally  after  the  rounding-up  and  brand- 
ing seasons,  when  the  cowboys  and  ranchmen  were 
"flush"  with  money.  It  was  generally  conceded  that 
Monsieur  Pierre  would  have  made  an  early  excursion 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON         83 

to  a  place  where  none  is  ever  "ordered  up,"  if  he  had 
not  been  free  with  the  money  which  he  so  plentifully 
won. 

Card-playing  was  to  him  a  science  and  a  passion. 
He  loved  to  win  for  winning's  sake.  After  that,  money, 
as  he  himself  put  it,  was  only  fit  to  be  spent  for  the 
good  of  the  country,  and  that  men  should  earn  more. 
Since  he  put  his  philosophy  into  instant  and  generous 
practice,  active  and  deadly  prejudice  against  him  did 
not  have  lengthened  life. 

The  Mounted  Police,  or  as  they  are  more  poetically 
called,  the  Riders  of  the  Plains,  watched  Galbraith's 
Place,  not  from  any  apprehension  of  violent  events, 
but  because  Galbraith  was  suspected  of  infringing  the 
prevailing  law  of  Prohibition,  and  because  for  some 
years  it  had  been  a  tradition  and  a  custom  to  keep  an 
eye  on  Pierre. 

As  Jen  Galbraith  stood  in  the  doorway  looking  ab- 
stractedly at  the  beacon,  her  fingers  smoothing  her 
snowy  apron  the  while,  she  was  thinking  thus  to  her- 
self: "  Perhaps  father  is  right.  If  that  Prairie  Star 
were  only  at  Vancouver  or  Winnipeg  instead  of  here, 
our  Val  could  be  something  more  than  a  prairie-rider. 
He'd  have  been  different,  if  father  hadn't  started  this 
tavern  business.  Not  that  our  Val  is  bad.  He  isn't; 
but  if  he  had  money  he  could  buy  a  ranch, — or  some- 
thing." 

Our  Val,  as  Jen  and  her  father  called  him,  was  a 
lad  of  twenty-two,  one  year  younger  than  Jen.  He 
was  prairie-rider,  cattle-dealer,  scout,  cowboy,  happy- 
go-lucky  vagrant, — a  splendid  Bohemian  of  the  plains. 
As  Jen  said,  he  was  not  bad;  but  he  had  a  fiery,  ' 
wandering  spirit,  touched  withal  by  the  sunniest  hu- 
mour. He  had  never  known  any  curb  but  Jen's  love 


84  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

and  care.  That  had  kept  him  within  bounds  so  far. 
All  men  of  the  prairie  spoke  well  of  him.  The  great 
new  lands  have  codes  and  standards  of  morals  quite 
their  own.  One  enthusiastic  admirer  of  this  youth 
said,  in  Jen's  hearing,  "He's  a  Christian — Val  Gal- 
braith!"  That  was  the  western  way  of  announcing  a 
man  as  having  great  civic  and  social  virtues.  Perhaps 
the  respect  for  Val  Galbraith  was  deepened  by  the  fact 
that  there  was  no  broncho  or  cayuse  that  he  could  not 
tame  to  the  saddle. 

Jen  turned  her  face  from  the  flame  and  looked  away 
from  the  oasis  of  warmth  it  made,  to  where  the  light 
shaded  away  into  darkness,  a  darkness  that  was  un- 
broken for  many  a  score  of  miles  to  the  north  and 
west.  She  sighed  deeply  and  drew  herself  up  with  an 
aggressive  motion  as  though  she  was  freeing  herself  of 
something.  So  she  was.  She  was  trying  to  shake  off 
a  feeling  of  oppression.  Ten  minutes  ago  the  gas- 
lighted  house  behind  her  had  seemed  like  a  prison. 
She  felt  that  she  must  have  air,  space,  and  freedom. 

She  would  have  liked  a  long  ride  on  the  buffalo- 
track.  That,  she  felt,  would  clear  her  mind.  She  was 
no  romantic  creature  out  of  her  sphere,  no  exotic. 
She  was  country-born  and  bred,  and  her  blood  had 
been  charged  by  a  prairie  instinct  passing  through 
three  generations.  She  was  part  of  this  life.  Her 
mind  was  free  and  strong,  and  her  body  was  free  and 
healthy.  While  that  freedom  and  health  was  genial, 
it  revolted  against  what  was  gross  or  irregular.  She 
loved  horses  and  dogs,  she  liked  to  take  a  gun  and 
ride  away  to  the  Poplar  Hills  in  search  of  game,  she 
found  pleasure  in  visiting  the  Indian  Reservation,  and 
talking  to  Sun-in-the-North,  the  only  good  Indian 
chief  she  knew,  or  that  anyone  else  on  the  prairies 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON        85 

knew.  She  loved  all  that  was  strong  and  untamed, 
all  that  was  panting  with  wild  and  glowing  life. 
Splendidly  developed,  softly  sinewy,  warmly  bountiful, 
yet  without  the  least  physical  over-luxuriance  or  sug- 
gestiveness,  Jen,  with  her  tawny  hair  and  dark- brown 
eyes,  was  a  growth  of  unrestrained,  unconventional, 
and  eloquent  life.  Like  Nature  around  her,  glowing 
and  fresh,  yet  glowing  and  hardy.  There  was,  how- 
ever, just  a  strain  of  pensiveness  in  her,  partly  owing 
to  the  fact  that  there  were  no  women  near  her,  that  she 
had,  virtually,  lived  her  life  as  a  woman  alone. 

II 

As  she  thus  looked  into  the  undefined  horizon  two 
things  were  happening:  a  traveller  was  approaching 
Galbraith's  Place  from  a  point  in  that  horizon;  and 
in  the  house  behind  her  someone  was  singing.  The 
traveller  sat  erect  upon  his  horse.  He  had  not  the 
free  and  lazy  seat  of  the  ordinary  prairie-rider.  It 
was  a  cavalry  seat,  and  a  military  manner.  He  be- 
longed to  that  handful  of  men  who  patrol  a  frontier 
of  near  a  thousand  miles,  and  are  the  security  of  peace 
in  three  hundred  thousand  miles  of  territory — the 
Riders  of  the  Plains,  the  North- West  Mounted  Police. 
This  Rider  of  the  Plains  was  Sergeant  Thomas  Gel- 
latly,  familiarly  known  as  Sergeant  Tom.  Far  away 
as  he  was  he  could  see  that  a  woman  was  standing  in 
the  tavern  door.  He  guessed  who  it  was,  and  his 
blood  quickened  at  the  guessing.  But  reining  his  horse 
on  the  furthest  edge  of  the  lighted  circle,  he  said,  de- 
batingly:  "I've  little  tune  enough  to  get  to  the  Rise, 
and  the  order  was  to  go  through,  hand  the  informa- 
tion to  Inspector  Jules,  and  be  back  within  forty-eight 


86  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

hours.  Is  it  flesh  and  blood  they  think  I  am?  Me 
that's  just  come  back  from  a  journey  of  a  hundred 
miles,  and  sent  off  again  like  this  with  but  a  taste  of 
sleep  and  little  food,  and  Corporal  Byng  sittin'  there 
at  Fort  Desire  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth  and  the  fat  on 
his  back  like  a  porpoise.  It's  famished  I  am  with 
hunger,  and  thirty  miles  yet  to  do;  and  she  standin' 
there  with  a  six  months'  welcome  in  her  eye.  ,  .  .  It's 
in  the  interest  of  Justice  if  I  halt  at  Galbraith's  Place 
for  half-an-hour,  bedad!  The  blackguard  hid  away 
there  at  Soldier's  Knee  will  be  arrested  all  the  sooner; 
for  horse  and  man  will  be  able  the  better  to  travel. 
I'm  glad  it's  not  me  that  has  to  take  him  whoever  he 
is.  It's  little  I  like  leadin'  a  fellow-creature  towards 
the  gallows,  or  puttin'  a  bullet  into  him  if  he  won't 
come.  .  .  .  Now  what  will  we  do,  Larry,  me  boy?" — 
this  to  the  broncho — "Go  on  without  bite  or  sup,  me 
achin'  behind  and  empty  before,  and  you  laggin'  in  the 
legs,  or  stay  here  for  the  slice  of  an  hour  and  get  some 
heart  into  us?  Stay  here  is  it,  me  boy?  then  lave  go 
me  fut  with  your  teeth  and  push  on  to  the  Prairie  Star 
there."  So  saying,  Sergeant  Tom,  whose  language  in 
soliloquy,  or  when  excited,  was  more  marked  by  a 
brogue  than  at  other  times,  rode  away  towards  Gal- 
braith's Place. 

In  the  tavern  at  that  moment,  Pretty  Pierrre  was 
sitting  on  the  bar-counter,  where  temperance  drinks 
were  professedly  sold,  singing  to  himself.  His  dress 
was  singularly  neat,  if  coarse,  and  his  slouch  hat  was 
worn  with  an  air  of  jauntiness  according  well  with 
his  slight  make  and  almost  girlish  delicacy  of  com- 
plexion. He  was  puffing  a  cigarette,  in  the  breaks  of 
the  song.  Peter  Galbraith,  tall,  gaunt,  and  sombre- 
looking,  sat  with  his  chair  tilted  back  against  the 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON        87 

wall,  rather  nervously  pulling  at  the  strips  of  bark  of 
which  the  yielding  chair-seat  was  made.  He  may  or 
may  not  have  been  listening  to  the  song  which  had 
run  through  several  verses.  Where  it  had  come  from, 
no  one  knew;  no  one  cared  to  know.  The  number  of 
its  verses  were  legion.  Pierre  had  a  sweet  voice,  of  a 
peculiarly  penetrating  quality;  still  it  was  low  and  well- 
modulated,  like  the  colour  in  his  cheeks,  which  gave 
him  his  name. 

These  were  the  words  he  was  singing  as  Sergeant 
Tom  rode  towards  the  tavern: 

"The  hot  blood  leaps  in  his  quivering  breast — 

Voila!    'Tis  his  enemies  near! 
There's  a  chasm  deep  on  the  mountain  crest — 

Oh,  the  sweet  Saint  Gabrielle  hear! 
They  follow  him  close  and  they  follow  him  fast, 

And  he  flies  like  a  mountain  deer; 
Then  a  mad,  wild  leap  and  he's  safe  at  last! — 

Oh,  the  sweet  Saint  Gabrielle  hear! 
A  cry  and  a  leap  and  the  danger's  past — 

Oh,  the  sweet  Saint  Gabrielle  hear!" 

At  the  close  of  the  verse,  Galbraith  said:  "I  don't 
like  that  song.  I — I  don't  like  it.  You're  not  a 
father,  Pierre." 

"No,  I  am  not  a  father.  I  have  some  virtue  of  that. 
I  have  spared  the  world  something,  Pete  Galbraith." 

"You  have  the  Devil's  luck;  your  sins  never  get 
you  into  trouble." 

A  curious  fire  flashed  in  the  half-breed's  eyes,  and 
he  said,  quietly:  "Yes,  I  have  great  luck;  but  I  have 
my  little  troubles  at  times — at  times." 

"They're  different,  though,  from  this  trouble  of 
VaFs."  There  was  something  like  a  fog  in  the  old 
man's  throat. 


88  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"Yes,  Val  was  quite  foolish,  you  see.  If  he  had 
killed  a  white  man — Pretty  Pierre,  for  instance — well, 
there  would  have  been  a  show  of  arrest,  but  he  could 
escape.  It  was  an  Injin.  The  Government  cherish 
the  Injin  much  in  these  days.  The  redskin  must  be 
protected.  It  must  be  shown  that  at  Ottawa  there  is 
justice.  That  is  droll — quite.  Eh,  bien!  Val  will  not 
try  to  escape.  He  waits  too  long — near  twenty-four 
hours.  Then,  it  is  as  you  see.  .  .  .  You  have  not  told 
her?"  He  nodded  towards  the  door  of  the  sitting- 
room. 

"Nothing.  It'll  come  on  Jen  soon  enough  if  he 
doesn't  get  away,  and  bad  enough  if  he  does,  and 
can't  come  back  to  us.  She's  fond  of  him — as  fond  of 
him  as  a  mother.  Always  was  wiser  than  our  Val  or 
me,  Jen  was.  More  sense  than  a  judge,  and  proud — 
but  not  too  proud,  Pierre — not  too  proud.  She  knows 
the  right  thing  to  do,  like  the  Scriptures;  and  she 
does  it  too.  .  .  .  Where  did  you  say  he  was  hid?" 

"In  the  Hollow  at  Soldier's  Knee.  He  stayed  too 
long  at  Moose  Horn.  In j  ins  carried  the  news  on  to 
Fort  Desire.  When  Val  started  south  for  the  Border 
other  Injins  followed,  and  when  a  halt  was  made  at 
Soldier's  Knee  they  pushed  across  country  over  to 
Fort  Desire.  You  see,  Val's  horse  give  out.  I  rode 
with  him  so  far.  My  horse  too  was  broke  up.  What 
was  to  be  done?  Well,  I  knew  a  ranchman  not  far 
from  Soldier's  Knee.  I  told  Val  to  sleep,  and  I  would 
go  on  and  get  the  ranchman  to  send  him  a  horse,  while 
I  come  on  to  you.  Then  he  could  push  on  to  the 
Border.  I  saw  the  ranchman,  and  he  swore  to  send  a 
horse  to  Val  to-night.  He  will  keep  his  word.  He 
knows  Val.  That  was  at  noon  to-day,  and  I  am  here, 
you  see,  and  you  know  all.  The  danger?  Ah,  my 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON         89 

friend, — the  Police  Barracks  at  Archangel's  Rise!  If 
word  is  sent  down  there  from  Fort  Desire  before  Val 
passes,  they  will  have  out  a  big  patrol,  and  his  chances, 
— well,  you  know  them,  the  Riders  of  the  Plains.  But 
Val,  I  think  will  have  luck,  and  get  into  Montana  be- 
fore they  can  stop  him.  I  hope;  yes." 

"If  I  could  do  anything,  Pierre!    Can't  we — " 

The  half-breed  interrupted:  "No,  we  can't  do  any- 
thing, Galbraith.  I  have  done  all.  The  ranchman 
knows  me.  He  will  keep  his  word,  by  the  Great 
Heaven!"  It  would  seem  as  if  Pierre  had  reasons  for 
relying  on  the  ranchman  other  than  ordinary  prairie 
courtesy  to  law-breakers. 

"Pierre,  tell  me  the  whole  story  over,  slow  and  plain. 
It  don't  seem  nateral  to  think  of  it;  but  if  you  go  over 
it  again,  perhaps  I  can  get  the  thing  more  reas'nable 
in  my  mind.  No,  it  ain't  nateral  to  me,  Pierre — our 
Val  running  away."  The  old  man  leaned  forward  and 
put  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"Eh,  well,  it  was  an  Injin.  So  much.  It  was  in 
self-defence — a  little,  but  of  course  to  prove  that. 
There  is  the  difficulty.  You  see,  they  were  all  drink- 
ing, and  the  Injin — he  was  a  chief — proposed — he  pro- 
posed that  Val  should  sell  him  his  sister,  Jen  Gal- 
braith, to  be  the  chief's  squaw.  He  would  give  him 
a  cayuse.  Val's  blood  came  up  quick — quite  quick. 
You  know  Val.  He  said  between  his  teeth:  'Look 
out,  Snow  Devil,  you  Injin  dog,  or  I'll  have  your  heart. 
Do  you  think  a  white  girl  is  like  a  redskin  woman,  to 
be  sold  as  you  sell  your  wives  and  daughters  to  the 
squaw-men  and  white  loafers,  you  reptile? '  Then  the 
Injin  said  an  ugly  word  about  Val's  sister,  and  Val 
shot  him  dead  like  lightning.  .  .  .  Yes,  that  is  good 
to  swear,  Galbraith.  You  are  not  the  only  one  that 


90  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

curses  the  law  in  this  world.  It  is  not  Justice  that 
fills  the  gaols,  but  Law." 

The  old  man  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  in  a  shuffling  kind  of  way.  His  best  days  were 
done,  the  spring  of  his  life  was  gone,  and  the  step  was 
that  of  a  man  who  had  little  more  of  activity  and 
force  with  which  to  turn  the  halting  wheels  of  life. 
His  face  was  not  altogether  good,  yet  it  was  not  evil. 
There  was  a  sinister  droop  to  the  eyelids,  a  suggestion 
of  cruelty  about  the  mouth;  but  there  was  more  of 
good-nature  and  passive  strength  than  either  in  the 
general  expression.  One  could  see  that  some  genial 
influence  had  dominated  what  was  inherently  cruel 
and  sinister  in  him.  Still  the  sinister  predisposition 
was  there. 

"He  can't  never  come  here,  Pierre,  can  he?"  he 
asked,  despairingly. 

"No,  he  can't  come  here,  Galbraith.  And  look:  if 
the  Riders  of  the  Plains  should  stop  here  to-night,  or 
to-morrow,  you  will  be  cool — cool,  eh?" 

"Yes,  I  will  be  quite  cool,  Pierre."  Then  he  seemed 
to  think  of  something  else  and  looked  up  half-curiously, 
half-inquiringly  at  the  half-breed. 

Pierre  saw  this.  He  whistled  quietly  to  himself  for 
a  little,  and  then  called  the  old  man  over  to  where  he 
sat.  Leaning  slightly  forward  he  made  his  reply  to 
the  look  that  had  been  bent  upon  him.  He  touched 
Galbraith' s  breast  lightly  with  his  delicate  fingers,  and 
said:  "I  have  not  much  love  for  the  world,  Pete  Gal- 
braith, and  not  much  love  for  men  and  women  alto- 
gether; they  are  fools — nearly  all.  Some  men — you 
know — treat  me  well.  They  drink  with  me — much. 
They  would  make  life  a  hell  for  me  if  I  was  poor- 
shoot  me,  perhaps,  quick! — if — if  I  didn't  shoot  first. 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON        91 

They  would  wipe  me  with  their  feet.  They  would 
spoil  Pretty  Pierre."  This  he  said  with  a  grim  kind 
of  humour  and  scorn,  refined  in  its  suppressed  force. 
Fastidious  as  he  was  in  appearance,  Pierre  was  not 
vain.  He  had  been  created  with  a  sense  of  refinement 
that  reduced  the  grossness  of  his  life;  but  he  did  not 
trade  on  it;  he  simply  accepted  it  and  lived  it  natu- 
rally after  his  kind.  He  was  not  good  at  heart,  and 
he  never  pretended  to  be  so.  He  continued:  "No,  I 
have  not  much  love;  but  Val,  well,  I  think  of  him  some. 
His  tongue  is  straight;  he  makes  no  lies.  His  heart 
is  fire;  his  arms  are  strong;  he  has  no  fear.  He  does 
not  love  Pierre;  but  he  does  not  pretend  to  love  him. 
He  does  not  think  of  me  like  the  rest.  So  much  the 
more  when  his  trouble  comes  I  help  him.  I  help  him 
to  the  death  if  he  needs  me.  To  make  him  my  friend 
— that  is  good.  Eh?  Perhaps.  You  see,  Galbraith?  " 

The  old  man  nodded  thoughtfully,  and  after  a  little 
pause  said:  "I  have  killed  Injins  myself;"  and  he 
made  a  motion  of  his  head  backward,  suggestive  of 
the  past. 

With  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  the  other  replied: 
"Yes,  so  have  I — sometimes.  But  the  government 
was  different  then,  and  there  were  no  Riders  of  the 
Plains."  His  white  teeth  showed  menacingly  under 
his  slight  moustache.  Then  there  was  another  pause. 
Pierre  was  watching  the  other. 

"What's  that  you're  doing,  Galbraith?" 

"Rubbin'  laudanum  on  my  gums  for  this  toothache. 
Have  to  use  it  for  nuralgy,  too." 

Galbraith  put  the  little  vial  back  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  and  presently  said:  "What  will  you  have  to 
drink,  Pretty  Pierre?"  That  was  his  way  of  showing 
gratitude. 


92  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"I  am  reform.  I  will  take  coffee,  if  Jen  Galbraith 
will  make  some.  Too  much  broke  glass  inside  is  not 
good.  Yes." 

Galbraith  went  into  the  sitting-room  to  ask  Jen  to 
make  the  coffee.  Pierre,  still  sitting  on  the  bar-counter, 
sang  to  himself  a  verse  of  a  rough-and-ready,  satirical 
prairie  ballad: 

"The  Riders  of  the  Plains,  my  boys,  are  twenty  thousand 
strong — 

Oh,  Lordy,  don't  they  make  the  prairies  howl! 
'Tis  their  lot  to  smile  on  virtue  and  to  collar  what  is  wrong, 

And  to  intercept  the  happy  flowin'  bowl. 

They've  a  notion,  that  in  glory,  when  we  wicked  ones  have 
chains 

They  will  all  be  major-generals — and  that! 
They're  a  lovely  band  of  pilgrims  are  the  Riders  of  the  Plains — 

Will  some  sinner  please  to  pass  around  the  hat?" 

As  he  reached  the  last  two  lines  of  the  verse  the  door 
opened  and  Sergeant  Tom  entered.  Pretty  Pierre  did 
not  stop  singing.  His  eyes  simply  grew  a  little  brighter, 
his  cheek  flushed  ever  so  slightly,  and  there  was  an 
increase  of  vigour  in  the  closing  notes. 

Sergeant  Tom  smiled  a  little  grimly,  then  he  nodded 
and  said:  "Been  at  it  ever  since,  Pretty  Pierre?  You 
were  singing  the  same  song  on  the  same  spot  when  I 
passed  here  six  months  ago." 

"Eh,  Sergeant  Tom,  it  is  you?  What  brings  you  so 
far  from  your  straw-bed  at  Fort  Desire?"  From  un- 
derneath his  hat-brim  Pierre  scanned  the  face  of  the 
trooper  closely. 

"Business.  Not  to  smile  on  virtue,  but  to  collar 
what  is  wrong.  I  guess  you  ought  to  be  ready  by 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON         93 

this  time  to  go  into  quarters,  Pierre.  You've  had  a 
long  innings." 

"Not  yet,  Sergeant  Tom,  though  I  love  the  Irish, 
and  your  company  would  make  me  happy.  But  I  am 
so  innocent,  and  the  world — it  cannot  spare  me  yet. 
But  I  think  you  come  to  smile  on  virtue,  all  the  same, 
Sergeant  Tom.  She  is  beautiful  is  Jen  Galbraith. 
Ah,  that  makes  your  eye  bright — so!  You  Riders  of 
the  Plains,  you  do  two  things  at  one  time.  You  make 
this  hour  someone  happy,  and  that  hour  someone  un- 
happy. In  one  hand  the  soft  glove  of  kindness,  in  the 
other,  voild,!  the  cold  glove  of  steel.  We  cannot  all  be 
great  like  that,  Sergeant  Tom." 

"Not  great,  but  clever.  Voild,,  the  Pretty  Pierre! 
In  one  hand  he  holds  the  soft  paper,  the  pictures  that 
deceive — kings,  queens,  and  knaves;  in  the  other, 
pictures  in  gold  and  silver — money  won  from  the 
pockets  of  fools.  And  so,  as  you  say,  bien,  and  we 
each  have  our  way,  bedad!" 

Sergeant  Tom  noticed  that  the  half-breed's  eyes 
nearly  closed,  as  if  to  hide  the  malevolence  that  was 
in  them.  He  would  not  have  been  surprised  to  see  a 
pistol  drawn.  But  he  was  quite  fearless,  and  if  it  was 
not  his  duty  to  provoke  a  difficulty,  his  fighting  nature 
would  not  shrink  from  giving  as  good  as  he  got.  Be- 
sides, so  far  as  that  nature  permitted,  he  hated  Pretty 
Pierre.  He  knew  the  ruin  that  this  gambler  had 
caused  here  and  there  in  the  West,  and  he  was  glad 
that  Fort  Desire,  at  any  rate,  knew  him  less  than  it 
did  formerly. 

Just  then  Peter  Galbraith  entered  with  the  coffee, 
followed  by  Jen.  When  the  old  man  saw  his  visitor  he 
stood  still  with  sudden  fear;  but  catching  a  warning 
look  from  the  eye  of  the  half-breed,  he  made  an  effort 


94  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

to  be  steady,  and  said:  "Well,  Jen,  if  it  isn't  Sergeant 
Tom!  And  what  brings  you  down  here,  Sergeant 
Tom?  After  some  scalawag  that's  broke  the  law?" 

Sergeant  Tom  had  not  noticed  the  blanched  anxiety 
in  the  father's  face;  for  his  eyes  were  seeking  those  of 
the  daughter.  He  answered  the  question  as  he  ad- 
vanced towards  Jen:  "Yes  and  no,  Galbraith;  I'm 
only  takin'  orders  to  those  who  will  be  after  some 
scalawag  by  daylight  in  the  mornin',  or  before.  The 
hand  of  a  traveller  to  you,  Miss  Jen." 

Her  eyes  replied  to  his  in  one  language;  her  lips 
spoke  another.  "And  who  is  the  law-breaker,  Ser- 
geant Tom?"  she  said,  as  she  took  his  hand. 

Galbraith's  eyes  strained  towards  the  soldier  till  the 
reply  came:  "And  I  don't  know  that;  not  wan  o'  me. 
I'd  ridden  in  to  Fort  Desire  from  another  duty,  a 
matter  of  a  hundred  miles,  whin  the  major  says  to 
me,  'There's  murder  been  done  at  Moose  Horn.  Take 
these  orders  down  to  Archangel's  Rise,  and  deliver 
them  and  be  back  here  within  forty-eight  hours.'  And 
here  I  am  on  the  way,  and,  if  I  wasn't  ready  to  drop 
for  want  of  a  bite  and  sup,  I'd  be  movin'  away  from 
here  to  the  south  at  this  moment." 

Galbraith  was  trembling  with  excitement.  Pierre 
warned  him  by  a  look,  and  almost  immediately  after- 
ward gave  him  a  reassuring  nod,  as  if  an  important 
and  favourable  idea  had  occurred  to  him. 

Jen,  looking  at  the  Sergeant's  handsome  face,  said: 
"It's  six  months  to  a  day  since  you  were  here,  Ser- 
geant Tom." 

"What  an  almanac  you  are,  Miss!" 

Pretty  Pierre  sipping  his  coffee  here  interrupted 
musingly:  "But  her  almanac  is  not  always  so  reliable. 
So  I  think.  When  was  I  here  last,  Ma'm'selle? " 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON         95 

With  something  like  menace  in  her  eyes  Jen  replied: 
"You  were  here  six  months  ago  to-day,  when  you  won 
thirty  dollars  from  our  Val;  and  then  again,  just  thirty 
days  after  that." 

"Ah,  so!    You  remember  with  a  difference." 

A  moment  after,  Sergeant  Tom  being  occupied  in 
talking  to  Jen,  Pierre  whispered  to  Peter  Galbraith: 
"His  horse — then  the  laudanum!" 

Galbraith  was  puzzled  for  a  moment,  but  soon  nodded 
significantly,  and  the  sinister  droop  to  his  eyes  became 
more  marked.  He  turned  to  the  Sergeant  and  said, 
"Your  horse  must  be  fed  as  well  as  yourself,  Sergeant 
Tom.  I'll  look  after  the  beast,  and  Jen  will  take  care 
of  you.  There's  some  fresh  coffee,  isn't  there,  Jen?" 

Jen  nodded  an  affirmative.  Galbraith  knew  that  the 
Sergeant  would  trust  no  one  to  feed  his  horse  but  him- 
self, and  the  offer  therefore  was  made  with  design. 

Sergeant  Tom  replied  instantly:  "No,  I'll  do  it  if 
someone  will  show  me  the  grass  pile." 

Pierre  slipped  quietly  from  the  counter,  and  said, 
"I  know  the  way,  Galbraith.  I  will  show." 

Jen  turned  to  the  sitting-room,  and  Sergeant  Tom 
moved  to  the  tavern  door,  followed  by  Pierre,  who,  as 
he  passed  Galbraith,  touched  the  old  man's  waistcoat 
pocket,  and  said:  "Thirty  drops  in  the  coffee." 

Then  he  passed  out,  singing  softly: 

"  And  he  sleepeth  so  well,  and  he  sleepeth  so  long — 

The  fight  it  was  hard,  my  dear; 
And  his  foes  were  many  and  swift  and  strong — 
Oh,  the  sweet  Saint  Gabrielle  hear!" 

There  was  danger  ahead  for  Sergeant  Thomas  Gel- 
latly.  Galbraith  followed  his  daughter  to  the  sitting- 
room.  She  went  to  the  kitchen  and  brought  bread, 


96  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

and  cold  venison,  and  prairie  fowl,  and  stewed  dried 
apples — the  stay  and  luxury  of  all  rural  Canadian 
homes.  The  coffee-pot  was  then  placed  on  the  table. 
Then  the  old  man  said:  "Better  give  him  some  of 
that  old  cheese,  Jen,  hadn't  you?  It's  in  the  cellar." 
He  wanted  to  be  rid  of  her  for  a  few  moments. 

"S'pose  I  had,"  and  Jen  vanished. 

Now  was  Galbraith's  chance.  He  took  the  vial  of 
laudanum  from  his  pocket,  and  opened  the  coffee-pot. 
It  was  half  full.  This  would  not  suit.  Someone  else 
— Jen — might  drink  the  coffee  also!  Yet  it  had  to  be 
done.  Sergeant  Tom  should  not  go  on.  Inspector 
Jules  and  his  Riders  of  the  Plains  must  not  be  put  upon 
the  track  of  Val.  Twelve  hours  would  make  all  the 
difference.  Pour  out  a  cup  of  coffee? — Yes,  of  course, 
that  would  do.  It  was  poured  out  quickly,  and  then 
thirty  drops  of  laudanum  were  carefully  counted  into- 
it.  Hark,  they  are  coming  back! — Just  in  time.  Ser- 
geant Tom  and  Pierre  enter  from  outside,  and  then 
Jen  from  the  kitchen.  Galbraith  is  pouring  another 
cup  of  coffee  as  they  enter,  and  he  says:  "Just  to  be 
sociable  I'm  goin'  to  have  a  cup  of  coffee  with  you, 
Sergeant  Tom.  How  you  Riders  of  the  Plains  get 
waited  on  hand  and  foot!"  Did  some  warning  flash 
through  Sergeant  Tom's  mind  or  body,  some  mental 
shock  or  some  physical  chill?  For  he  distinctly  shiv- 
ered, though  he  was  not  cold.  He  seemed  suddenly 
oppressed  with  a  sense  of  danger.  But  his  eyes  fell 
on  Jen,  and  the  hesitation,  for  which  he  did  not  then 
try  to  account,  passed.  Jen,  clear-faced  and  true,  in- 
vited him  to  sit  and  eat,  and  he,  starting  half-abstract- 
edly,  responded  to  her  "Draw  nigh,  Sergeant  Tom," 
and  sat  down.  Commonplace  as  the  words  were,  they 
thrilled  him,  for  he  thought  of  a  table  of  his  own  in  a 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON         97 

home  of  his  own,  and  the  same  words  spoken  everyday, 
but  without  the  "Sergeant," — simply  "Tom." 

He  ate  heartily  and  sipped  his  coffee  slowly,  talk- 
ing meanwhile  to  Jen  and  Galbraith.  Pretty  Pierre 
watched  them  all.  Presently  the  gambler  said:  "Let 
us  go  and  have  our  game  of  euchre,  Galbraith. 
Ma'm'selle  can  well  take  care  of  Sergeant  Tom." 

Galbraith  drank  the  rest  of  his  coffee,  rose,  and 
passed  with  Pierre  into  the  bar-room.  Then  the  half- 
breed  said  to  him,  "You  were  careful — thirty  drops?" 

"Yes,  thirty  drops."  The  latent  cruelty  of  the  old 
man's  nature  was  awake. 

"That  is  right.  It  is  sleep;  not  death.  He  will 
sleep  so  sound  for  half  a  day,  perhaps  eighteen  hours, 
and  then! — Val  will  have  a  long  start." 

In  the  sitting-room  Sergeant  Tom  was  saying: 
"Where  is  your  brother,  Miss  Galbraith?"  He  had  no 
idea  that  the  order  in  his  pocket  was  for  the  arrest  of 
that  brother.  He  merely  asked  the  question  to  start 
the  talk. 

He  and  Jen  had  met  but  five  or  six  times;  but  the 
impression  left  on  the  minds  of  both  was  pleasant — 
ineradicable.  Yet,  as  Sergeant  Tom  often  asked  him- 
self during  the  past  six  months,  why  should  he  think 
of  her?  The  life  he  led  was  one  of  severe  endurance, 
and  harshness,  and  austerity.  Into  it  there  could  not 
possibly  enter  anything  of  home.  He  was  but  a  non- 
commissioned officer  of  the  Mounted  Police,  and  be- 
yond that  he  had  nothing.  Ireland  had  not  been  kind 
to  him.  He  had  left  her  inhospitable  shores,  and  after 
years  of  absence  he  had  but  a  couple  of  hundred  dollars 
laid  up — enough  to  purchase  his  discharge  and  some- 
thing over,  but  nothing  with  which  to  start  a  home. 
Ranching  required  capital.  No,  it  couldn't  be  thought 


98  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

of;  and  yet  he  had  thought  of  it,  try  as  he  would  not 
to  do  so.  And  she?  There  was  that  about  this  man 
who  had  lived  life  on  two  continents,  in  whose  blood 
ran  the  warm  and  chivalrous  Celtic  fire,  which  ap- 
pealed to  her.  His  physical  manhood  was  noble,  if 
rugged;  his  disposition  genial  and  free,  if  schooled, 
but  not  entirely,  to  that  reserve  which  his  occupation 
made  necessary — a  reserve  he  would  have  been  more 
careful  to  maintain,  in  speaking  of  his  mission  a  short 
tune  back  in  the  bar-room,  if  Jen  had  not  been  there. 
She  called  out  the  frankest  part  of  him;  she  opened 
the  doors  of  his  nature;  she  attracted  confidence  as 
the  sun  does  the  sunflower. 

To  his  question  she  replied:  "I  do  not  know  where 
our  Val  is.  He  went  on  a  hunting  expedition  up  north. 
We  never  can  tell  about  him,  when  he  will  turn  up  or 
where  he  will  be  to-morrow.  He  may  walk  in  any 
minute.  We  never  feel  uneasy.  He  always  has  such 
luck,  and  comes  out  safe  and  sound  wherever  he  is. 
Father  says  Val's  a  hustler,  and  that  nothing  can  keep 
in  the  road  with  him.  But  he's  a  little  wild — a  little. 
Still,  we  don't  hector  him,  Sergeant  Tom;  hectoring 
never  does  any  good,  does  it?" 

"No,  hectoring  never  does  any  good.  And  as  for 
the  wildness,  if  the  heart  of  him's  right,  why  that's 
easy  out  of  him  whin  he's  older.  It's  a  fine  lad  I 
thought  him,  the  time  I  saw  him  here.  It's  his  free- 
dom I  wish  I  had — me  that  has  to  travel  all  day  and 
part  of  the  night,  and  thin  part  of  the  day  and  all 
night  back  again,  and  thin  a  day  of  sleep  and  the  same 
thing  over  again.  And  that's  the  life  of  me,  sayin' 
nothin'  of  the  frost  and  the  blizzards,  and  no  home  to 
go  to,  and  no  one  to  have  a  meal  for  me  like  this  whin  I 
turn  up."  And  the  sergeant  wound  up  with,  "Whooroo ! 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON         99 

there's  a  speech  for  you,  Miss!"  and  laughed  good- 
humouredly.  For  all  that,  there  was  in  his  eyes  an 
appeal  that  went  straight  to  Jen's  heart. 

But,  woman-like,  she  would  not  open  the  way  for 
him  to  say  anything  more  definite  just  yet.  She 
turned  the  subject.  And  yet  again,  woman-like,  she 
knew  it  would  lead  to  the  same  conclusion: 

"  You  must  go  to-night?" 

"Yes,  I  must." 

"Nothing — nothing  would  keep  you?" 

"Nothing.  Duty  is  duty,  much  as  I'd  like  to  stay, 
and  you  givin'  me  the  bid.  But  my  orders  were  strict. 
You  don't  know  what  discipline  means,  perhaps.  It 
means  obeyin'  commands  if  you  die  for  it;  and  my 
commands  were  to  take  a  letter  to  Inspector  Jules  at 
Archangel's  Rise  to-night.  It's  a  matter  of  murder  or 
the  like,  and  duty  must  be  done,  and  me  that  sleepy, 
not  forgettin'  your  presence,  as  ever  a  man  was  and 
looked  the  world  in  the  face." 

He  drank  the  rest  of  the  coffee  and  mechanically 
set  the  cup  down,  his  eyes  closing  heavily  as  he  did  so. 
He  made  an  effort,  however,  and  pulled  himself  to- 
gether. His  eyes  opened,  and  he  looked  at  Jen  steadily 
for  a  moment.  Then  he  leaned  over  and  touched  her 
hand  gently  with  his  fingers, — Pierre's  glove  of  kind- 
ness,— and  said:  "It's  in  my  heart  to  want  to  stay; 
but  a  sight  of  you  I'll  have  on  my  way  back.  But  I 
must  go  on  now,  though  I'm  that  drowsy  I  could  lie 
down  here  and  never  stir  again." 

Jen  said  to  herself:  "Poor  fellow,  poor  fellow,  how 
tired  he  is!  I  wish" —  but  she  withdrew  her  hand. 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  and  said,  absently: 
"It's  my  duty  and  it's  orders,  and  .  .  .  what  was  I 
sayin'?  The  disgrace  of  me  if,  if  ...  bedad!  the 


100  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

sleep's  on  me;  I'm  awake,  but  I  can't  open  my  eyes. 
...  If  the  orders  of  me — and  a  good  meal  .  .  .  and 
the  disgrace  ...  to  do  me  duty — looked  the  world 
in  the  face — " 

During  this  speech  he  staggered  to  his  feet,  Jen 
watching  him  anxiously  the  while.  No  suspicion  of 
the  cause  of  his  trouble  crossed  her  mind.  She  set  it 
down  to  extreme  natural  exhaustion.  Presently  feel- 
ing the  sofa  behind  him,  he  dropped  upon  it,  and,  fall- 
ing back,  began  to  breathe  heavily.  But  even  in  this 
physical  stupefaction  he  made  an  effort  to  reassert 
himself,  to  draw  himself  back  from  the  coming  uncon- 
sciousness. His  eyes  opened,  but  they  were  blind 
with  sleep;  and  as  if  in  a  dream,  he  said:  "My  duty 
.  .  .  disgrace  ...  a  long  sleep  .  .  .  Jen,  dearest" — 
how  she  started  then! — "it  must  be  done  .  .  .  my 
Jen!"  and  he  said  no  more. 

But  these  few  words  had  opened  up  a  world  for  her 
— a  new-created  world  on  the  instant.  Her  life  was 
illuminated.  She  felt  the  fulness  of  a  great  thought 
suffusing  her  face.  A  beautiful  dream  was  upon  her. 
It  had  come  to  her  out  of  his  sleep.  But  with  its 
splendid  advent  there  came  the  other  thing  that 
always  is  born  with  woman's  love — an  almost  pathetic 
care  of  the  being  loved.  In  the  deep  love  of  women 
the  maternal  and  protective  sense  works  in  the  par- 
allels of  mutual  regard.  In  her  life  now  it  sprang  full- 
statured  in  action;  love  of  him,  care  of  him;  his  hon- 
our her  honour;  his  life  her  life.  He  must  not  sleep 
like  this  if  it  was  his  duty  to  go  on.  Yet  how  utterly 
worn  he  must  be!  She  had  seen  men  brought  in  from 
fighting  prairie  fires  for  three  days  without  sleep;  had 
watched  them  drop  on  their  beds,  and  lie  like  logs  for 
thirty-six  hours.  This  sleep  of  her  lover  was,  there- 


fore,  not  so  strange  to  her:  but  it  was  perilous  to  the 
performance  of  his  duty. 

"Poor  Sergeant  Tom,"  she  said.  "Poor  Tom,"  she 
added;  and  then,  with  a  great  flutter  at  the  heart  at 
last,  "My  Tom!"  Yes,  she  said  that;  but  she  said 
it  to  the  beacon,  to  the  Prairie  Star,  burning  outside 
brighter,  it  seemed  to  her,  than  it  had  ever  done  be- 
fore. Then  she  sat  down  and  watched  him  for  many 
minutes,  thinking  at  the  end  of  each  that  she  would 
wake  him.  But  the  minutes  passed,  his  breathing 
grew  heavier,  and  he  did  not  stir.  The  Prairie  Star 
made  quivering  and  luminous  curtains  of  red  for  the 
windows,  and  Jen's  mind  was  quivering  in  vivid  waves 
of  feeling  just  the  same.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she 
was  looking  at  life  now  through  an  atmosphere  charged 
with  some  rare,  refining  essence,  and  that  in  it  she  stood 
exultingly.  Perhaps  she  did  not  define  it  so;  but  that 
which  we  define  she  felt.  And  happy  are  they  who 
feel  it,  and,  feeling  it,  do  not  lose  it  in  this  world,  and 
have  the  hope  of  carrying  it  into  the  next. 

After  a  tune  she  rose,  went  over  to  him  and  touched 
his  shoulder.  It  seemed  strange  to  her  to  do  this 
thing.  She  drew  back  timidly  from  the  pleasant 
shock  of  a  new  experience.  Then  she  remembered 
that  he  ought  to  be  on  his  way,  and  she  shook  him 
gently,  then,  with  all  her  strength,  and  called  to  him 
quietly  all  the  time,  as  if  her  low  tones  ought  to  wake 
him,  if  nothing  else  could.  But  he  lay  in  a  deep  and 
stolid  slumber.  It  was  no  use.  She  went  to  her  seat 
and  sat  down  to  think.  As  she  did  so,  her  father 
entered  the  room. 

"Did  you  call,  Jen?"  he  said;  and  turned  to  the  sofa. 

"I  was  calling  to  Sergeant  Tom.  He's  asleep  there; 
dead-gone,  father.  I  can't  wake  him." 


102  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"Why  should  you  wake  him?     He  is  tired." 

The  sinister  lines  in  Galbraith's  face  had  deepened 
greatly  in  the  last  hour.  He  went  over  and  looked 
closely  at  the  Sergeant,  followed  languidly  by  Pierre, 
who  casually  touched  the  pulse  of  the  sleeping  man, 
and  said  as  casually: 

"Eh,  he  sleep  well;  his  pulse  is  like  a  baby;  he  was 
tired,  much.  He  has  had  no  sleep  for  one,  two,  three 
nights,  perhaps;  and  a  good  meal,  it  makes  him  com- 
fortable, and  so  you  see!" 

Then  he  touched  lightly  the  triple  chevron  on  Ser- 
geant Tom's  arm,  and  said : 

"Eh,  a  man  does  much  work  for  that.  And  then, 
to  be  moral  and  the  friend  of  the  law  all  the  time!" 
Pierre  here  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It  is  easier  to 
be  wicked  and  free,  and  spend  when  one  is  rich,  and 
starve  when  one  is  poor,  than  to  be  a  sergeant  and 
wear  the  triple  chevron.  But  the  sleep  will  do  him 
good  just  the  same,  Jen  Galbraith." 

"He  said  that  he  must  go  to  Archangel's  Rise  to- 
night, and  be  back  at  Fort  Desire  to-morrow  night." 

"Well,  that's  nothing  to  us,  Jen,"  replied  Galbraith, 
roughly.  "He's  got  his  own  business  to  look  after. 
He  and  his  tribe  are  none  too  good  to  us  and  our 
tribe.  He'd  have  your  old  father  up  to-morrow  for 
selling  a  tired  traveller  a  glass  of  brandy;  and  worse 
than  that,  ay,  a  great  sight  worse  than  that,  mind  you, 
Jen." 

Jen  did  not  notice,  or,  at  least,  did  not  heed,  the 
excited  emphasis  on  the  last  words.  She  thought  that 
perhaps  her  father  had  been  set  against  the  Sergeant 
by  Pierre. 

"There,  that'll  do,  father,"  she  said.  "It's  easy  to 
bark  at  a  dead  lion.  Sergeant  Tom's  asleep,  and  you 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON       103 

say  things  that  you  wouldn't  say  if  he  was  awake. 
He  never  did  us  any  harm,  and  you  know  that's  true, 
father." 

Galbraith  was  about  to  reply  with  anger;  but  he 
changed  his  mind  and  walked  into  the  bar-room,  fol- 
lowed by  Pierre. 

In  Jen's  mind  a  scheme  had  been  hurriedly  and 
clearly  formed;  and  with  her,  to  form  it  was  to  put  it 
into  execution.  She  went  to  Sergeant  Tom,  opened 
his  coat,  felt  in  the  inside  pocket,  and  drew  forth  an 
official  envelope.  It  was  addressed  to  Inspector  Jules 
at  Archangel's  Rise.  She  put  it  back  and  buttoned  up 
the  coat  again.  Then  she  said,  with  her  hands  firmly 
clenching  at  her  side, — "I'll  do  it." 

She  went  into  the  adjoining  room  and  got  a  quilt, 
which  she  threw  over  him,  and  a  pillow,  which  she 
put  under  his  head.  Then  she  took  his  cap  and  the 
cloak  which  he  had  thrown  over  a  chair,  as  if  to  carry 
them  away.  But  another  thought  occurred  to  her, 
for  she  looked  towards  the  bar-room  and  put  them 
down  again.  She  glanced  out  of  the  window  and  saw 
that  her  father  and  Pierre  had  gone  to  lessen  the 
volume  of  gas  which  was  feeding  the  flame.  This,  she 
knew,  meant  that  her  father  would  go  to  bed  when  he 
came  back  to  the  house;  and  this  suited  her  purpose. 
She  waited  till  they  had  entered  the  bar-room  again, 
and  then  she  went  to  them,  and  said:  "I  guess  he's 
asleep  for  all  night.  Best  leave  him  where  he  is.  I'm 
going.  Good-night." 

When  she  got  back  to  the  sitting-room  she  said  to 
herself:  "How  old  father's  looking!  He  seems  broken 
up  to-day.  He  isn't  what  he  used  to  be."  She  turned 
once  more  to  look  at  Sergeant  Tom,  then  she  went  to 
her  room. 


104  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

A  little  later  Peter  Galbraith  and  Pretty  Pierre  went 
to  the  sitting-room,  and  the  old  man  drew  from  the 
Sergeant's  pocket  the  envelope  which  Jen  had  seen. 
Pierre  took  it  from  him.  "No,  Pete  Galbraith.  Do 
not  be  a  fool.  Suppose  you  steal  that  paper.  Sergeant 
Tom  will  miss  it.  He  will  understand.  He  will  guess 
about  the  drug,  then  you  will  be  in  trouble.  Val  will 
be  safe  now.  This  Rider  of  the  Plains  will  sleep  long 
enough  for  that.  There,  I  put  the  paper  back.  He 
sleeps  like  a  log.  No  one  can  suspect  the  drug,  and  it 
is  all  as  we  like.  No,  we  will  not  steal;  that  is  wrong — 
quite  wrong" — here  Pretty  Pierre  showed  his  teeth. 
"We  will  go  to  bed.  Come!" 

Jen  heard  them  ascend  the  stairs.  She  waited  a 
half-hour,  then  she  stole  into  Val's  bedroom,  and  when 
she  emerged  again  she  had  a  bundle  of  clothes  across 
her  arm.  A  few  minutes  more  and  she  -walked  into 
the  sitting-room  dressed  in  Val's  clothes,  and  with  her 
hair  closely  wound  on  the  top  of  her  head. 

The  house  was  still.  The  Prairie  Star  made  the 
room  light  enough  for  her  purpose.  She  took  Ser- 
geant Tom's  cap  and  cloak  and  put  them  on.  She  drew 
the  envelope  from  his  pocket  and  put  it  in  her  bosom 
— she  showed  the  woman  there,  though  for  the  rest  of 
this  night  she  was  to  be  a  Rider  of  the  Plains, — She 
of  the  Triple  Chevron. 

She  went  towards  the  door,  hesitated,  drew  back, 
then  paused,  stooped  down  quickly,  tenderly  touched 
the  soldier's  brow  with  her  lips,  and  said:  "I'll  do  it 
for  you.  You  shall  not  be  disgraced — Tom." 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON       105 


III 

THIS  was  at  half-past  ten  o'clock.  At  two  o'clock  a 
jaded  and  blown  horse  stood  before  the  door  of  the 
barracks  at  Archangel's  Rise.  Its  rider,  muffled  to 
the  chin,  was  knocking,  and  at  the  same  time  pulling 
his  cap  down  closely  over  his  head.  "Thank  God  the 
night  is  dusky,"  he  said.  We  have  heard  that  voice 
before.  The  hat  and  cloak  are  those  of  Sergeant  Tom, 
but  the  voice  is  that  of  Jen  Galbraith.  There  is  some 
danger  in  this  act;  danger  for  her  lover,  contempt  for 
herself  if  she  is  discovered.  Presently  the  door  opens 
and  a  corporal  appears.  "Who's  there?  Oh,"  he 
added,  as  he  caught  sight  of  the  familiar  uniform; 
"where  from?" 

"From  Fort  Desire.  Important  orders  to  Inspector 
Jules.  Require  fresh  horse  to  return  with;  must  leave 
mine  here.  Have  to  go  back  at  once." 

"I  say,"  said  the  corporal,  taking  the  papers — 
"what's  your  name?" 

"Gellatly— Sergeant  Gellatly." 

"Say,  Sergeant  Gellatly,  this  isn't  accordin'  to 
Hoyle — come  in  the  night  and  go  in  the  night  and  not 
stay  long  enough  to  have  a  swear  at  the  Gover'ment. 
Why,  you're  comin'  in,  aren't  you?  You're  comin' 
across  the  door-mat  for  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  warm 
while  the  horse  is  gettin'  ready,  aren't  you,  Sergeant 
— Sergeant  Gellatly,  Sergeant  Gellatly?  I've  heard 
of  you,  but — yes;  I  will  hurry.  Here,  Waugh,  this  to 
Inspector  Jules!  If  you  won't  step  in  and  won't  drink 
and  will  be  unsociable,  sergeant,  why,  come  on  and 
you  shall  have  a  horse  as  good  as  the  one  you've 
brought.  I'm  Corporal  Galna. " 


106  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

Jen  led  the  exhausted  horse  to  the  stables.  For- 
tunately there  was  no  lantern  used,  and  therefore  little 
chance  for  the  garrulous  corporal  to  study  the  face  of 
his  companion,  even  if  he  wished  to  do  so.  The  risk 
was  considerable;  but  Jen  Galbraith  was  fired  by  that 
spirit  of  self-sacrifice  which  has  held  a  world  rocking 
to  destruction  on  a  balancing  point  of  safety. 

The  horse  was  quickly  saddled,  Jen  meanwhile  re- 
maining silent.  While  she  was  mounting,  Corporal 
Galna  drew  and  struck  a  match  to  light  his  pipe.  He 
held  it  up  for  a  moment  as  though  to  see  the  face  of  Ser- 
geant Gellatly.  Jen  had  just  given  a  good-night,  and 
the  horse  the  word  and  a  touch  of  the  spur  at  the  in- 
stant. Her  face,  that  is,  such  of  it  as  could  be  seen 
above  the  cloak  and  under  the  cap,  was  full  in  the  light. 
Enough  was  seen,  however,  to  call  forth,  in  addition  to 
Corporal  Galna's  good-night,  the  exclamation, — "Well, 
I'mblowed!" 

As  Jen  vanished  into  the  night  a  moment  after,  she 
heard  a  voice  calling — not  Corporal  Galna's — "Sergeant 
Gellatly,  Sergeant  Gellatly!"  She  supposed  it  was 
Inspector  Jules,  but  she  would  not  turn  back  now. 
Her  work  was  done. 

A  half-hour  later  Corporal  Galna  confided  to  Private 
Waugh  that  Sergeant  Gellatly  was  too  damned  pretty 
for  the  force — wondered  if  they  called  him  Beauty  at 
Fort  Desire — couldn't  call  him  Pretty  Gellatly,  for 
there  was  Pretty  Pierre  who  had  right  of  possession  to 
that  title — would  like  to  ask  him  what  soap  he  used 
for  his  complexion — 'twasn't  this  yellow  bar-soap  of 
the  barracks,  which  wouldn't  lather,  he'd  bet  his  ulti- 
mate dollar. 

Waugh,  who  had  sometime  seen  Sergeant  Gellatly, 
entered  into  a  disputation  on  the  point.  He  said  that 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON       107 

"Sergeant  Tom  was  good-looking,  a  regular  Irish  thor- 
oughbred; but  he  wasn't  pretty,  not  much! — guessed 
Corporal  Galna  had  nightmare,  and  finally,  as  the  in- 
terest in  the  theme  increased  in  fervour,  announced 
that  Sergeant  Tom  could  loosen  the  teeth  of,  and 
knock  the  spots  off,  any  man  among  the  Riders,  from 
Archangel's  Rise  to  the  Cypress  Hills.  Pretty — not 
much — thoroughbred  all  over!" 

And  Corporal  Galna  replied,  sarcastically, — "That 
he  might  be  able  for  spot  dispersion  of  such  a  kind,  but 
he  had  two  as  pretty  spots  on  his  cheek,  and  as  white 
and  touch-no-tobacco  teeth  as  any  female  ever  had." 
Private  Waugh  declared  then  that  Corporal  Galna 
would  be  saying  Sergeant  Gellatly  wasn't  a  man  at  all, 
and  wore  earrings,  and  put  his  hah*  into  papers;  and 
when  he  could  find  no  further  enlargement  of  sarcasm, 
consigned  the  Corporal  to  a  fiery  place  of  future  tor- 
ment reserved  for  lunatics. 

At  this  critical  juncture  Waugh  was  ordered  to  pro- 
ceed to  Inspector  Jules.  A  few  minutes  after,  he  was 
riding  away  toward  Soldier's  Knee,  with  the  Inspector 
and  another  private,  to  capture  Val  Galbraith,  the 
slayer  of  Snow  Devil,  while  four  other  troopers  also 
started  off  in  different  directions. 

IV 

IT  was  six  o'clock  when  Jen  drew  rein  in  the  yard  at 
Galbraith's  Place.  Through  the  dank  humours  of  the 
darkest  time  of  the  night  she  had  watched  the  first 
grey  streaks  of  dawn  appear.  She  had  caught  her 
breath  with  fear  at  the  thought  that,  by  some  acci- 
dent, she  might  not  get  back  before  seven  o'clock,  the 
hour  when  her  father  rose.  She  trembled  also  at  the 


108  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

supposition  of  Sergeant  Tom  awaking  and  finding  his 
papers  gone.  But  her  fearfulness  and  excitement  was 
not  that  of  weakness,  rather  that  of  a  finely  nervous 
nature,  having  strong  elements  of  imagination,  and, 
therefore,  great  capacities  for  suffering  as  for  joy;  but 
yet  elastic,  vigorous,  and  possessing  unusual  powers  of 
endurance.  Such  natures  rebuild  as  fast  as  they  are 
exhausted.  In  the  devitalising  time  preceding  the 
dawn  she  had  felt  a  sudden  faintness  come  over  her 
for  a  moment;  but  her  will  surmounted  it,  and,  when 
she  saw  the  ruddy  streaks  of  pink  and  red  glorify  the 
horizon,  she  felt  a  sudden  exaltation  of  physical 
strength.  She  was  a  child  of  the  light,  she  loved  the 
warm  flame  of  the  sun,  the  white  gleam  of  the  moon. 

Holding  in  her  horse  to  give  him  a  five  minutes'  rest, 
she  rose  in  her  saddle  and  looked  round.  She  was 
alone  in  her  circle  of  vision,  she  and  her  horse.  The 
long  hillocks  of  prairie  rolled  away  like  the  sea  to  the 
flushed  morning,  and  the  far-off  Cypress  Hills  broke 
the  monotonous  skyline  of  the  south.  Already  the  air 
was  dissipated  of  its  choking  weight,  and  the  vast  soli- 
tude was  filling  with  that  sense  of  freedom  which  night 
seems  to  shut  in  as  with  four  walls,  and  day  to  widen 
gloriously.  Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes  from  a  sudden 
rush  of  feeling;  but  her  lips  were  smiling.  The  world 
was  so  different  from  what  it  was  yesterday.  Some- 
thing had  quickened  her  into  a  glowing  life. 

Then  she  urged  the  horse  on,  and  never  halted  till 
she  reached  home.  She  unsaddled  the  animal  that 
had  shared  with  her  the  hardship  of  the  long,  hard 
ride,  hobbled  it,  and  entered  the  house  quickly.  No 
one  was  stirring.  Sergeant  Tom  was  still  asleep.  This 
she  saw,  as  she  hurriedly  passed  in  and  laid  the  cap 
and  cloak  where  she  had  found  them.  Then,  once 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON       109 

again,  she  touched  the  brow  of  the  sleeper  with  her 
lips,  and  went  to  her  room  to  divest  herself  of  Val's 
clothes.  The  thing  had  been  done  without  anyone 
knowing  of  her  absence.  But  she  was  frightened  as 
she  looked  into  the  mirror.  She  was  haggard,  and  her 
eyes  were  bloodshot.  Eight  hours  or  nearly  in  the 
saddle,  at  ten  miles  an  hour,  had  told  on  her  severely; 
as  well  it  might.  Even  a  prairie-born  woman,  however, 
understands  the  art  and  use  of  grooming  better  than 
a  man.  Warm  water  quickly  heated  at  the  gas,  with 
a  little  acetic  acid  in  it, — used  generally  for  her  scour- 
ing,— and  then  cold  water  with  oatmeal  flour,  took 
away  in  part  the  dulness  and  the  lines  in  the  flesh. 
But  the  eyes!  Jen  remembered  the  vial  of  tincture  of 
myrrh  left  by  a  young  Englishman  a  year  ago,  and 
used  by  him  for  refreshing  his  eyes  after  a  drinking 
bout.  She  got  it,  tried  the  tincture,  and  saw  and  felt 
an  immediate  benefit.  Then  she  made  a  cup  of  strong 
green  tea,  and  in  ten  minutes  was  like  herself  again. 

Now  for  the  horse.  She  went  quickly  out  where 
she  could  not  be  seen  from  the  windows  of  the  house, 
and  gave  him  a  rubbing  down  till  he  was  quite  dry. 
Then  she  gave  him  a  little  water  and  some  feed.  The 
horse  was  really  the  touchstone  of  discovery.  But 
Jen  trusted  in  her  star.  If  the  worst  came  she  would 
tell  the  tale.  It  must  be  told  anyway  to  Sergeant 
Tom — but  that  was  different  now.  Even  if  the  thing 
became  known  it  would  only  be  a  thing  to  be  teased 
about  by  her  father  and  others,  and  she  could  stop 
that.  Poor  girl,  as  though  that  was  the  worst  that 
was  to  come  from  her  act! 

Sergeant  Tom  slept  deeply  and  soundly.  He  had 
not  stirred.  His  breathing  was  unnaturally  heavy, 
Jen  thought,  but  no  suspicion  of  foul  play  came  to 


110  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

her  mind  yet.  Why  should  it?  She  gave  herself  up 
to  a  sweet  and  simple  sense  of  pride  in  the  deed  she 
had  done  for  him,  disturbed  but  slightly  by  the  chances 
of  discovery,  and  the  remembrance  of  the  match  that 
showed  her  face  at  Archangel's  Rise.  Her  hands 
touched  the  flaxen  hair  of  the  soldier,  and  her  eyes 
grew  luminous.  One  night  had  stirred  all  her  soul  to 
its  depths.  A  new  woman  had  been  born  in  her. 
Val  was  dear  to  her — her  brother  Val;  but  she  real- 
ised now  that  another  had  come  who  would  occupy  a 
place  that  neither  father,  nor  brother,  nor  any  other 
could  fill.  Yet  it  was  a  most  weird  set  of  tragic  cir- 
cumstances. This  man  before  her  had  been  set  to  do 
a  task  which  might  deprive  her  brother  of  his  life,  cer- 
tainly of  his  freedom;  that  would  disgrace  him;  her 
father  had  done  a  great  wrong  too,  had  put  in  danger 
the  life  of  the  man  she  loved,  to  save  his  son;  she  her- 
self in  doing  this  deed  for  her  lover  had  placed  her 
brother  in  jeopardy,  had  crossed  swords  with  her 
father's  purposes,  had  done  the  one  thing  that  stood 
between  that  father's  son  and  safety;  Pretty  Pierre, 
whom  she  hated  and  despised,  and  thought  to  be  the 
enemy  of  her  brother  and  of  her  home,  had  proved 
himself  a  friend;  and  behind  it  all  was  the  brother's 
crime  committed  to  avenge  an  insult  to  her  name. 

But  such  is  life.  Men  and  women  are  unwittingly 
their  own  executioners,  and  the  executioners  of  those 
they  love. 


AN  hour  passed,  and  then  Galbraith  and  Pierre  ap- 
peared. Jen  noticed  that  her  father  went  over  to  Ser- 
geant Tom  and  rather  anxiously  felt  his  pulse.  Once 
in  the  night  the  old  man  had  come  down  and  done  the 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON       111 

same  thing.  Pierre  said  something  in  an  undertone. 
Did  they  think  he  was  ill?  That  was  Jen's  thought. 
She  watched  them  closely;  but  the  half-breed  knew 
that  she  was  watching,  and  the  two  said  nothing  more 
to  each  other.  But  Pierre  said,  in  a  careless  way:  "It 
is  good  he  have  that  sleep.  He  was  played  out, 
quite." 

Jen  replied,  a  secret  triumph  at  her  heart:  "But 
what  about  his  orders,  the  papers  he  was  to  carry  to 
Archangel's  Rise?  What  about  his  being  back  at  Fort 
Desire  in  the  time  given  him?" 

"It  is  not  much  matter  about  the  papers.  The  poor 
devil  that  Inspector  Jules  would  arrest — well,  he  will 
get  off,  perhaps,  but  that  does  no  one  harm.  Eh, 
Galbraith?  The  law  is  sometimes  unkind.  And  as 
for  obeying  orders,  why,  the  prairie  is  wide,  it  is  a 
hard  ride,  horses  go  wrong; — a  little  tale  of  trouble  to 
Inspector  Jules,  another  at  Fort  Desire,  and  who  is  to 
know  except  Pete  Galbraith,  Jen  Galbraith,  and 
Pierre?  Poor  Sergeant  Tom.  It  was  good  he  sleep  so." 

Jen  felt  there  was  irony  behind  the  smooth  words  of 
the  gambler.  He  had  a  habit  of  saying  things,  as  they 
express  it  in  that  country,  between  his  teeth.  That 
signifies  what  is  animal-like  and  cruel.  Galbraith 
stood  silent  during  Pierre's  remarks,  but,  when  he  had 
finished,  said: 

"Yes,  it's  all  right  if  he  doesn't  sleep  too  long;  but 
there's  the  trouble — too  long!" 

Pierre  frowned  a  warning,  and  then  added,  with  un- 
concern: "I  remember  when  you  sleep  thirty  hours, 
Galbraith — after  the  prairie  fire,  three  years  ago,  eh!" 

"Well,  that's  so;  that's  so  as  you  say  it.  We'll  let 
him  sleep  till  noon,  or  longer — or  longer,  won't  we, 
Pierre?" 


112  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"Yes,  till  noon  is  good,  or  longer." 

"But  he  shall  not  sleep  longer  if  I  can  wake  him," 
said  Jen.  "You  do  not  think  of  the  trouble  all  this 
sleeping  may  make  for  him." 

"But  then — but  then,  there  is  the  trouble  he  will 
make  for  others,  if  he  wakes.  Think.  A  poor  devil 
trying  to  escape  the  law!" 

"But  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  that,  and  justice 
is  justice,  Pierre." 

"Eh,  well,  perhaps,  perhaps!" 

Galbraith  was  silent. 

Jen  felt  that  so  far  as  Sergeant  Tom's  papers  were 
concerned  he  was  safe;  but  she  felt  also  that  by  noon 
he  ought  to  be  on  his  way  back  to  Fort  Desire — after 
she  had  told  him  what  she  had  done.  She  was  anxious 
for  his  honour.  That  her  lover  shall  appear  well  be- 
fore the  world,  is  a  thing  deep  in  the  heart  of  every 
woman.  It  is  a  pride  for  which  she  will  deny  herself, 
even  of  the  presence  of  that  lover. 

"Till  noon,"  Jen  said,  "and  then  he  must  go." 

VI 

JEN  watched  to  see  if  her  father  or  Pierre  would  notice 
that  the  horse  was  changed,  had  been  travelled  during 
the  night,  or  that  it  was  a  different  one  altogether. 
As  the  morning  wore  away  she  saw  that  they  did  not 
notice  the  fact.  This  ignorance  was  perhaps  owing 
largely  to  the  appearance  of  several  ranchmen  from 
near  the  American  border.  They  spent  their  tune  in 
the  bar-room,  and  when  they  left  it  was  nearly  noon. 
Still  Sergeant  Tom  slept.  Jen  now  went  to  him  and 
tried  to  wake  him.  She  lifted  him  to  a  sitting  position, 
but  his  head  fell  on  her  shoulder.  Disheartened,  she 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON       113 

laid  him  down  again.  But  now  at  last  an  undefined 
suspicion  began  to  take  possession  of  her.  It  made 
her  uneasy;  it  filled  her  with  a  vague  sense  of  alarm. 
Was  this  sleep  natural?  She  remembered  that,  when 
her  father  and  others  had  slept  so  long  after  the  prairie 
fire,  she  had  waked  them  once  to  give  them  drink  and 
a  little  food,  and  they  did  not  breathe  so  heavily  as  he 
was  doing.  Yet  what  could  be  done?  What  was  the 
matter?  There  was  not  a  doctor  nearer  than  a  hun- 
dred miles.  She  thought  of  bleeding, — the  old-fash- 
ioned remedy  still  used  on  the  prairies — but  she  decided 
to  wait  a  little.  Somehow  she  felt  that  she  would  re- 
ceive no  help  from  her  father  or  Pierre.  Had  they 
anything  to  do  with  this  sleep?  Was  it  connected  with 
the  papers?  No,  not  that,  for  they  had  not  sought  to 
take  them,  and  had  not  made  any  remark  about  their 
being  gone.  This  showed  then*  unconcern  on  that  point. 
She  could  not  fathom  the  mystery,  but  the  suspicion 
of  something  irregular  deepened.  Her  father  could 
have  no  reason  for  injuring  Sergeant  Tom;  but  Pretty 
Pierre — that  was  another  matter.  Yet  she  remembered 
too  that  her  father  had  appeared  the  more  anxious  of 
the  two  about  the  Sergeant's  sleep.  She  recalled  that 
he  said:  "Yes,  it's  all  right,  if  he  doesn't  sleep  too 
long." 

But  Pierre  could  play  a  part,  she  knew,  and  could 
involve  others  in  trouble,  and  escape  himself.  He  was 
a  man  with  a  reputation  for  occasional  wickednesses  of 
a  naked,  decided  type.  She  knew  that  he  was  pos- 
sessed of  a  devil,  of  a  very  reserved  devil,  but  liable  to 
bold  action  on  occasions.  She  knew  that  he  valued 
the  chances  of  life  or  death  no  more  than  he  valued 
the  thousand  and  one  other  chances  of  small  import- 
ance, which  occur  in  daily  experience.  It  was  his 


114  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

creed  that  one  doesn't  go  till  the  game  is  done  and  all 
the  cards  are  played.  He  had  a  stoic  indifference  to 
events. 

He  might  be  capable  of  poisoning — poisoning!  ah, 
that  thought!  of  poisoning  Sergeant  Tom  for  some 
cause.  But  her  father?  The  two  seemed  to  act  alike 
in  the  matter.  Could  her  father  approve  of  any  harm 
happening  to  Tom?  She  thought  of  the  meal  he  had 
eaten,  of  the  coffee  he  had  drunk.  The  coffee — was 
that  the  key?  But  she  said  to  herself  that  she  was 
foolish,  that  her  love  had  made  her  so.  No,  it  could 
not  be. 

But  a  fear  grew  upon  her,  strive  as  she  would  against 
it.  She  waited  silently  and  watched,  and  twice  or 
thrice  made  ineffectual  efforts  to  rouse  him.  Her 
father  came  in  once.  He  showed  anxiety;  that  was 
unmistakable,  but  was  it  the  anxiety  of  guilt  of  any 
kind?  She  said  nothing.  At  five  o'clock  matters 
abruptly  came  to  a  climax.  Jen  was  in  the  kitchen, 
but,  hearing  footsteps  in  the  sitting-room,  she  opened 
the  door  quietly.  Her  father  was  bending  over  Ser- 
geant Tom,  and  Pierre  was  speaking:  "No,  no,  Gal- 
braith,  it  is  all  right.  You  are  a  fool.  It  could  not 
kill  him." 

"Kill  him — kill  him,"  she  repeated  gaspingly  to 
herself. 

"You  see  he  was  exhausted;  he  may  sleep  for  hours 
yet.  Yes,  he  is  safe,  I  think." 

"But  Jen,  she  suspects  something,  she — " 

"Hush!"  said  Pretty  Pierre.  He  saw  her  standing 
near.  She  had  glided  forward  and  stood  with  flash- 
ing eyes  turned,  now  upon  the  one,  and  now  upon  the 
other.  Finally  they  rested  on  Galbraith. 

"Tell  me  what  you  have  done  to  him;    what  you 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON       115 

and  Pretty  Pierre  have  done  to  him.  You  have  some 
secret.  I  will  know."  She  leaned  forward,  something 
of  the  tigress  in  the  poise  of  her  body.  "I  tell  you,  I 
will  know."  Her  voice  was  low,  and  vibrated  with 
fierceness  and  determination.  Her  eyes  glowed,  and 
her  nostrils  trembled  with  disdain  and  indignation. 
As  they  drew  back, — the  old  man  sullenly,  the  gam- 
bler with  a  slight  gesture  of  impatience, — she  came 
a  step  nearer  to  them  and  waited,  the  cords  of  her 
shapely  throat  swelling  with  excitement.  A  moment 
so,  and  then  she  said  in  a  tone  that  suggested  menace, 
determination: 

"You  have  poisoned  him.  Tell  me  the  truth.  Do 
you  hear,  father — the  truth,  or  I  will  hate  you.  I  will 
make  you  repent  it  till  you  die." 

"But—"  Pierre  began. 

She  interrupted  him.  "Do  not  speak,  Pretty  Pierre. 
You  are  a  devil.  You  will  lie.  Father — !"  She  waited. 

"What  difference  does  it  make  to  you,  Jen?" 

"What  difference — what  difference  to  me?  That  you 
should  be  a  murderer?" 

"But  that  is  not  so,  that  is  a  dream  of  yours, 
Ma'm'selle,"  said  Pierre. 

She  turned  to  her  father  again.  "Father,  will  you 
tell  the  truth  to  me?  I  warn  you  it  will  be  better  for 
you  both." 

The  old  man's  brow  was  sullen,  and  his  lips  were 
twitching  nervously.  "You  care  more  for  him  than  you 
do  for  your  own  flesh  and  blood,  Jen.  There's  nothing 
to  get  mad  about  like  that.  I'll  tell  you  when  he's  gone. 
.  .  .  Let's — let's  wake  him,"  he  added,  nervously. 

He  stooped  down  and  lifted  the  sleeping  man  to  a 
sitting  posture.  Pierre  assisted  him. 

Jen  saw  that  the  half-breed  believed  Sergeant  Tom 


116  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

could  be  wakened,  and  her  fear  diminished  slightly,  if 
her  indignation  did  not.  They  lifted  the  soldier  to  his 
feet.  Pierre  pressed  the  point  of  a  pin  deep  into  his 
arm.  Jen  started  forward,  woman-like,  to  check  the 
action,  but  drew  back,  for  she  saw  heroic  measures 
might  be  necessary  to  bring  him  to  consciousness. 
But,  nevertheless,  her  anger  broke  bounds,  and  she 
said:  "Cowards — cowards!  What  spite  made  you  do 
this?" 

"Damnation,  Jen,"  said  the  father,  "you'll  hector 
me  till  I  make  you  sorry.  What's  this  Irish  policeman 
to  you?  What's  he  beside  your  own  flesh  and  blood, 
I  say  again." 

"Why  does  my  own  flesh  and  blood  do  such  wicked 
tricks  to  an  Irish  soldier?  Why  does  it  give  poison  to  an 
Irish  soldier?" 

"Poison,  Jen?  You  needn't  speak  so  ghost-like.  It 
was  only  a  dose  of  laudanum;  not  enough  to  kill  him. 
Ask  Pierre." 

Inwardly  she  believed  him,  and  said  a  Thank-God 
to  herself,  but  to  the  half-breed  she  remarked:  "Yes, 
ask  Pierre — you  are  behind  all  this!  It  is  some  evil 
scheme  of  yours.  Why  did  you  do  it?  Tell  the  truth 
for  once."  Her  eyes  swam  angrily  with  Pierre's. 

Pierre  was  complacent;  he  admired  her  wild  attacks. 
He  smiled,  and  replied:  "My  dear,  it  was  a  whim  of 
mine;  but  you  need  not  tell  him,  all  the  same,  when  he 
wakes.  You  see  this  is  your  father's  house,  though  the 
whim  is  mine.  But  look:  he  is  waking — the  pin  is 
good.  Some  cold  water,  quick!" 

The  cold  water  was  brought  and  dashed  into  the  face 
of  the  soldier.  He  showed  signs  of  returning  conscious- 
ness. The  effect  of  the  laudanum  had  been  intensified 
by  the  thoroughly  exhausted  condition  of  the  body. 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON       117 

But  the  man  was  perfectly  healthy,  and  this  helped 
to  resist  the  danger  of  a  fatal  result. 

Pierre  kept  up  an  intermittent  speech.  "Yes,  it  was 
a  mere  whim  of  mine.  Eh,  he  will  think  he  has  been  an 
ass  to  sleep  so  long,  and  on  duty,  and  orders  to  carry  to 
Archangel's  Rise!"  Here  he  showed  his  teeth  again, 
white  and  regular  like  a  dog's.  That  was  the  impression 
they  gave,  his  lips  were  so  red,  and  the  contrast  was  so 
great.  One  almost  expected  to  find  that  the  roof  of  his 
mouth  was  black,  like  that  of  a  well-bred  hound;  but 
there  is  no  evidence  available  on  the  point. 

" There,  that  is  good,"  he  said.  "Now  set  him  down, 
Pete  Galbraith.  Yes — so,  so !  Sergeant  Tom,  ah,  you 
will  wake  well,  soon.  Now  the  eyes  a  little  wider. 
Good.  Eh,  Sergeant  Tom,  what  is  the  matter?  It  is 
breakfast  tune — quite." 

Sergeant  Tom's  eyes  opened  slowly  and  looked 
dazedly  before  him  for  a  minute.  Then  they  fell  on 
Pierre.  At  first  there  was  no  recognition,  then  they 
became  consciously  clearer.  "Pretty  Pierre,  you  here 
in  the  barracks! "  he  said.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  head, 
then  rubbed  his  eyes  roughly  and  looked  up  again.  This 
time  he  saw  Jen  and  her  father.  His  bewilderment 
increased.  Then  he  added:  "What  is  the  matter? 
Have  I  been  asleep?  What — !"  He  remembered.  He 
staggered  to  his  feet  and  felt  his  pockets  quickly  and 
anxiously  for  his  letter.  It  was  gone. 

"The  letter!  "he  said.  "My  orders!  Who  has  robbed 
me?  Faith,  I  remember.  I  could  not  keep  awake  after 
I  drank  the  coffee.  My  papers  are  gone,  I  tell  you, 
Galbraith,"  he  said,  fiercely. 

Then  he  turned  to  Jen:  "You  are  not  in  this,  Jen. 
Tell  me." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  was  about  to 


118  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

answer,  when  he  turned  to  the  gambler  and  said: 
"You  are  at  the  bottom  of  this.  Give  me  my  papers." 

But  Pierre  and  Galbraith  were  as  dumbfounded  as 
the  Sergeant  himself  to  know  that  the  letter  was  gone. 
They  were  stunned  beyond  speech  when  Jen  said,  flush- 
ing: "No,  Sergeant  Tom,  7  am  the  thief.  When  I 
could  not  wake  you,  I  took  the  letter  from  your  pocket 
and  carried  it  to  Inspector  Jules  last  night, — or,  rather, 
Sergeant  Gellatly  carried  them.  I  wore  his  cap  and 
cloak  and  passed  for  him." 

"You  carried  that  letter  to  Inspector  Jules  last  night, 
Jen?"  said  the  soldier,  all  his  heart  in  his  voice. 

Jen  saw  her  father  blanch,  his  mouth  open  blankly, 
and  his  lips  refuse  to  utter  the  words  on  them.  For  the 
first  time  she  comprehended  some  danger  to  him,  to  her- 
self—to Val !  "  Father,  father,"  she  said,— "  what  is  it?  " 

Pierre  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  rejoined:  "Eh,  the 
devil!  Such  mistakes  of  women.  They  are  fools — all." 

The  old  man  put  out  a  shaking  hand  and  caught  his 
daughter's  arm.  His  look  was  of  mingled  wonder  and 
despair,  as  he  said,  in  a  gasping  whisper,  "You  carried 
that  letter  to  Archangel's  Rise?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  faltering  now;  "Sergeant  Tom 
had  said  how  important  it  was,  you  remember.  That 
it  was  his  duty  to  take  it  to  Inspector  Jules,  and  be  back 
within  forty-eight  hours.  He  fell  asleep.  I  could  not 
wake  him.  I  thought,  what  if  he  were  my  brother — our 
Val.  So,  when  you  and  Pretty  Pierre  went  to  bed,  I 
put  on  Val's  clothes,  took  Sergeant  Tom's  cloak  and 
hat,  carried  the  orders  to  Jules,  and  was  back  here  by 
six  o'clock  this  morning." 

Sergeant  Tom's  eyes  told  his  tale  of  gratitude.  He 
made  a  step  towards  her;  but  the  old  man,  with  a 
strange  ferocity,  motioned  him  back,  saying, 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON       119 

"Go  away  from  this  house.  Go  quick.  Go  now,  I 
tell  you,  or  by  God,— I'll— " 

Here  Pretty  Pierre  touched  his  arm. 

Sergeant  Tom  drew  back,  not  because  he  feared  but 
as  if  to  get  a  mental  perspective  of  the  situation. 

Galbraith  again  said  to  his  daughter, — "Jen,  you 
carried  them  papers?  You!  for  him — for  the  Law!" 
Then  he  turned  from  her,  and  with  hand  clenched  and 
teeth  set  spoke  to  the  soldier:  "Haven't  you  heard 
enough?  Curse  you,  why  don't  you  go?" 

Sergeant  Tom  replied  coolly :  "Not  so  fast,  Galbraith. 
There's  some  mystery  in  all  this.  There's  my  sleep  to 
be  accounted  for  yet.  You  had  some  reason,  some" — 
he  caught  the  eyes  of  Pierre.  He  paused.  A  light  began 
to  dawn  on  his  mind,  and  he  looked  at  Jen,  who  stood 
rigidly  pale,  her  eyes  fixed  fearfully,  anxiously,  upon 
him.  She  too  was  beginning  to  frame  in  her  mind  a  pos- 
sible horror;  the  thing  that  had  so  changed  her  father, 
the  cause  for  drugging  the  soldier.  There  was  a  silence 
in  which  Pierre  first,  and  then  all,  detected  the  sound  of 
horses'  hoofs.  Pierre  went  to  the  door  and  looked  out. 
He  turned  round  again,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders 
with  an  expression  of  helplessness.  But  as  he  saw  Jen 
was  about  to  speak,  and  Sergeant  Tom  to  move  towards 
the  door,  he  put  up  his  hand  to  stay  them  both,  and 
said:  "A  little— wait!" 

Then  all  were  silent.  Jen's  fingers  nervously  clasped 
and  unclasped,  and  her  eyes  were  strained  towards  the 
door.  Sergeant  Tom  stood  watching  her  pityingly;  the 
old  man's  head  was  bowed.  The  sound  of  galloping  grew 
plainer.  It  stopped.  An  instant  and  then  three  horse- 
men appeared  before  the  door.  One  was  Inspector 
Jules,  one  was  Private  Waugh,  and  the  other  between 
them  was — let  Jen  tell  who  he  was.  With  an  agonised 


120  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

cry  she  rushed  from  the  house  and  threw  herself  against 
the  saddle,  and  with  her  arms  about  the  prisoner,  cried : 

"Oh,  Val,  Val,  it  was  you!  It  was  you  they  were 
after.  It  was  you  that — oh  no,  no,  no!  My  poor  Val, 
and  I  can't  tell  you — I  can't  tell  you!" 

Great  as  was  her  grief  and  self-reproach,  she  felt  it 
would  be  cruel  to  tell  him  the  part  she  had  taken  in 
placing  him  in  this  position.  She  hated  herself,  but 
why  deepen  his  misery?  His  face  was  pale,  but  it  had 
its  old,  open,  fearless  look,  which  dissipation  had  not 
greatly  marred.  His  eyelids  quivered,  but  he  smiled, 
and  touching  her  with  his  steel-bound  hands,  gently 
said: 

"  Never  mind,  Jen.  It  isn't  so  bad.  You  see  it  was 
this  way:  Snow  Devil  said  something  about  someone 
that  belonged  to  me,  that  cares  more  about  me  than  I 
deserve.  Well,  he  died  sudden,  and  I  was  there  at  the 
time.  That's  all.  I  was  trying  with  the  help  of  Pretty 
Pierre  to  get  out  of  the  country" — and  he  waved  his 
hand  towards  the  half-breed. 

"With  Pretty  Pierre— Pierre? "  she  said. 

"Yes,  he  isn't  all  gambler.  But  they  were  too  quick 
for  me,  and  here  I  am.  Jules  is  a  hustler  on  the  march. 
But  he  said  he'd  stop  here  and  let  me  see  you  and  dad 
as  we  go  up  to  Fort  Desire,  and — there,  don't  mind, 
Sis — don't  mind  it  so!" 

Her  sobs  had  ceased,  but  she  clung  to  him  as  if  she 
could  never  let  him  go.  Her  father  stood  near  her,  all 
the  lines  in  his  face  deepened  into  bitterness.  To  him 
Val  said:  "Why,  dad,  what's  the  matter?  Your  hand 
is  shaky.  Don't  you  get  this  thing  eatin'  at  your  heart. 
It  isn't  worth  it.  That  Injin  would  have  died  if  you'd 
been  in  my  place,  I  guess.  Between  you  and  me,  I  ex- 
pect to  give  Jules  the  slip  before  we  get  there."  And  he 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON       121 

laughed  at  the  Inspector,  who  laughed  a  little  austerely 
too,  and  in  his  heart  wished  that  it  was  anyone  else  he 
had  as  a  prisoner  than  Val  Galbraith,  who  was  a  favour- 
ite with  the  Riders  of  the  Plains. 

Sergeant  Tom  had  been  standing  in  the  doorway 
regarding  this  scene,  and  working  out  in  his  mind  the 
complications  that  had  led  to  it.  At  this  point  he  came 
forward,  and  Inspector  Jules  said  to  him,  after  a  curt 
salutation: 

"You  were  in  a  hurry  last  night,  Sergeant  Gellatly. 
You  don't  seem  so  pushed  for  time  now.  Usual  thing. 
When  a  man  seems  over-zealous — drink,  cards,  or 
women  behind  it.  But  your  taste  is  good,  even  if,  under 
present  circumstances'7 — He  stopped,  for  he  saw  a 
threatening  look  in  the  eyes  of  the  other,  and  that  other 
said:  "We  won't  discuss  that  matter,  Inspector,  if  you 
please.  I'm  going  on  to  Fort  Desire  now.  I  couldn't 
have  seen  you  if  I'd  wanted  to  last  night." 

"That's  nonsense.  If  you  had  waited  one  minute 
longer  at  the  barracks  you  could  have  done  so.  I  called 
to  you  as  you  were  leaving,  but  you  didn't  turn  back." 

"No.     I  didn't  hear  you." 

All  were  listening  to  this  conversation,  and  none  more 
curiously  than  Private  Waugh.  Many  a  time  in  days 
to  come  he  pictured  the  scene  for  the  benefit  of  his  com- 
rades. Pretty  Pierre,  leaning  against  the  hitching-post 
near  the  bar-room,  said  languidly:  "But,  Inspector,  he 
speaks  the  truth — quite:  that  is  a  virtue  of  the  Riders 
of  the  Plains."  Val  had  his  eyes  on  the  half-breed,  and 
a  look  of  understanding  passed  between  them.  While 
Val  and  his  father  and  sister  were  saying  their  farewells 
in  few  words,  but  with  homely  demonstrations,  Sergeant 
Tom  brought  his  horse  round  and  mounted  it.  In- 
spector Jules  gave  the  word  to  move  on.  As  they 


122  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

started,  Gellatly,  who  fell  behind  the  others  slightly, 
leaned  down  and  whispered:  "Forgive  me,  Jen.  You 
did  a  noble  act  for  me,  and  the  life  of  me  would  prove 
to  you  that  I'm  grateful.  It's  sorry,  sorry  I  am.  But 
I'll  do  what  I  can  for  Val,  as  sure  as  the  heart's  in  me. 
Good-bye,  Jen." 

She  looked  up  with  a  faint  hope  in  her  eyes.  "Good- 
bye!" she  said.  "I  believe  you  .  .  .  Good-bye!" 

In  a  few  minutes  there  was  only  a  cloud  of  dust  on 
the  prairie  to  tell  where  the  Law  and  its  quarry  were. 
And  of  those  left  behind,  one  was  a  broken-spirited  old 
man  with  sorrow  melting  away  the  sinister  look  in  his 
face;  one,  a  girl  hovering  between  the  tempest  of  bitter- 
ness and  a  storm  of  self-reproach;  and  one  a  half-breed 
gambler,  who  again  sat  on  the  bar-counter  smoking  a 
cigarette  and  singing  to  himself,  as  indolently  as  if  he 
were  not  in  the  presence  of  a  painful  drama  of  life,  per- 
haps a  tragedy.  But  was  the  song  so  pointless  to  the 
occasion,  after  all,  and  was  the  man  so  abstracted  and 
indifferent  as  he  seemed?  For  thus  the  song  ran: 

"Oh,  the  bird  in  a  cage  and  the  bird  on  a  tree — 

Voila!  'tis  a  different  fear! 
The  maiden  weeps  and  she  bends  the  knee — 

Oh,  the  sweet  Saint  Gabrielle  hear! 
But  the  bird  in  a  cage  has  a  friend  in  the  tree, 

And  the  maiden  she  dries  her  tear: 
And  the  night  is  dark  and  no  moon  you  see — 

Oh,  the  sweet  Saint  Gabrielle  hear! 
When  the  doors  are  open  the  bird  is  free — 

Oh,  the  sweet  Saint  Gabrielle  hear  I" 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON       123 


VII 

THESE  words  kept  ringing  in  Jen's  ears  as  she  stood 
again  in  the  doorway  that  night  with  her  face  turned  to 
the  beacon.  How  different  it  seemed  now!  When  she 
saw  it  last  night  it  was  a  cheerful  spirit  of  light — a  some- 
thing suggesting  comfort,  companionship,  aspiration, 
a  friend  to  the  traveller,  and  a  mysterious,  but  delight- 
ful, association.  In  the  morning  when  she  returned 
from  that  fortunate,  yet  most  unfortunate,  ride,  it  was 
still  burning,  but  its  warm  flame  was  exhausted  in  the 
glow  of  the  life-giving  sun;  the  dream  and  delight  of 
the  night  robbed  of  its  glamour  by  the  garish  morning; 
like  her  own  body,  its  task  done,  sinking  before  the  unre- 
lieved scrutiny  of  the  day.  To-night  it  burned  with  a 
different  radiance.  It  came  in  fiery  palpitations  from 
the  earth.  It  made  a  sound  that  was  now  like  the  moan 
of  pine  trees,  now  like  the  rumble  of  far-off  artillery. 
The  slight  wind  that  blew  spread  the  topmost  crest  of 
flame  into  strands  of  ruddy  hair,  and,  looking  at  it,  Jen 
saw  herself  rocked  to  and  fro  by  tumultuous  emotions, 
yet  fuller  of  strength  and  larger  of  life  than  ever  she 
had  been.  Her  hot  veins  beat  with  determination, 
with  a  love  which  she  drove  back  by  another,  cher- 
ished now  more  than  it  had  ever  been,  because  danger 
threatened  the  boy  to  whom  she  had  been  as  a  mother. 
In  twenty-four  hours  she  had  grown  to  the  full  stature 
of  love  and  suffering. 

There  were  shadows  that  betrayed  less  roundness  to 
her  face;  there  were  lines  that  told  of  weariness;  but  in 
her  eyes  there  was  a  glowing  light  of  hope.  She  raised 
her  face  to  the  stars  and  unconsciously  paraphrasing 
Pierre's  song  said : ' '  Oh,  the  God  that  dost  save  us,  hear ! " 


124  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

A  hand  touched  her  arm,  and  a  voice  said,  huskily, 
"Jen,  I  wanted  to  save  him  and — and  not  let  you  know 
of  it;  that's  all.  You're  not  keepin'  a  grudge  agin  me, 
my  girl?" 

She  did  not  move  nor  turn  her  head.  "I've  no 
grudge,  father;  but — if — if  you  had  told  me,  'twouldn't 
be  on  my  mind  that  I  had  made  it  worse  for  Val." 

The  kindness  in  the  voice  reassured  him,  and  he 
ventured  to  say:  "I  didn't  think  you'd  be  carin'  for 
one  of  the  Riders  of  the  Plains,  Jen." 

Then  the  old  man  trembled  lest  she  should  resent 
his  words.  She  seemed  about  to  do  so,  but  the  flush 
faded  from  her  brow,  and  she  said,  simply:  "I  care 
for  Val  most,  father.  But  he  didn't  know  he  was  get- 
ting Val  into  trouble. " 

She  suddenly  quivered  as  a  wave  of  emotion  passed 
through  her;  and  she  said,  with  a  sob  in  her  voice: 
"Oh,  it's  all  scrub  country,  father,  and  no  paths,  and — 
and  I  wish  I  had  a  mother!" 

The  old  man  sat  down  in  the  doorway  and  bowed 
his  grey  head  in  his  arms.  Then,  after  a  moment,  he 
whispered: 

"She's  been  dead  twenty-two  years,  Jen.  The  day 
Val  was  born  she  went  away.  I'd  a-been  a  better  man 
if  she'd  a-lived,  Jen;  and  a  better  father." 

This  was  an  unusual  demonstration  between  these 
two.  She  watched  him  sadly  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
leaning  over  and  touching  him  gently  on  the  shoulder, 
said:  "It's  worse  for  you  than  it  is  for  me,  father. 
Don't  feel  so  bad.  Perhaps  we  shall  save  him  yet." 

He  caught  a  gleam  of  hope  in  her  words:  "Mebbe, 
Jen,  mebbe!"  and  he  raised  his  face  to  the  light. 

This  ritual  of  affection  was  crude  and  unadorned; 
but  it  was  real.  They  sat  there  for  half-an-hour,  silent. 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON       125 

Then  a  figure  came  out  of  the  shadows  behind  the  house 
and  stood  before  them.  It  was  Pierre. 

"I  go  to-morrow  morning,  Galbraith,"  he  said. 

The  old  man  nodded,  but  did  not  reply. 

"I  go  to  Fort  Desire,"  the  gambler  added. 

Jen  faced  him.  "What  do  you  go  there  for,  Pretty 
Pierre?" 

"It  is  my  whim.  Besides,  there  is  Val.  He  might 
want  a  horse  some  dark  night." 

"Pierre,  do  you  mean  that?" 

"As  much  as  Sergeant  Tom  means  what  he  says. 
Every  man  has  his  friends.  Pretty  Pierre  has  a  fancy 
for  Val  Galbraith — a  little.  It  suits  him  to  go  to  Fort 
Desire.  Jen  Galbraith,  you  make  a  grand  ride  last 
night.  You  do  a  bold  thing — all  for  a  man.  We  shall 
see  what  he  will  do  for  you.  And  if  he  does  nothing — 
ah!  you  can  trust  the  tongue  of  Pretty  Pierre.  He  will 
wish  he  could  die,  instead  of —  Eh,  bien,  good-night!" 

He  moved  away.  Jen  followed  him.  She  held  out 
her  hand.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  done  so 
to  this  man. 

"I  believe  you,"  she  said.  "I  believe  that  you  mean 
well  to  our  Val.  I  am  sorry  that  I  called  you  a  devil." 

He  smiled.  "Ma'm'selle,  that  is  nothing.  You 
spoke  true.  But  devils  have  their  friends — and  their 
whims.  So  you  see,  good-night." 

"Mebbe  it  will  come  out  all  right,  Jen — mebbe!" 
said  the  old  man. 

But  Jen  did  not  reply.  She  was  thinking  hard,  her 
eyes  upon  the  Prairie  Star.  Living  life  to  the  hilt  greatly 
illumines  the  outlook  of  the  mind.  She  was  beginning 
to  understand  that  evil  is  not  absolute,  and  that  good 
is  often  an  occasion  more  than  a  condition. 

There  was  a  long  silence  again.    At  last  the  old  man 


126  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

rose  to  go  and  reduce  the  volume  of  flame  for  the  night; 
but  Jen  stopped  him.  "No,  father,  let  it  burn  all  it 
can  to-night.  It's  comforting." 

"Mebbe  so — mebbe!"  he  said. 

A  faint  refrain  came  to  them  from  within  the  house: 

"  When  doors  are  open  the  bird  is  free — 
Oh,  the  sweet  Saint  Gabrielle  hearl" 


VIII 

IT  was  a  lovely  morning.  The  prairie  billowed  away 
endlessly  to  the  south,  and  heaved  away  in  vastness  to 
the  north;  and  the  fresh,  sharp  air  sent  the  blood  beat- 
ing through  the  veins.  In  the  bar-room  some  early 
traveller  was  talking  to  Peter  Galbraith.  A  wandering 
band  of  Indians  was  camped  about  a  mile  away,  the 
only  sign  of  humanity  in  the  waste.  Jen  sat  in  the 
doorway  culling  dried  apples.  Though  tragedies  occur 
in  lives  of  the  humble,  they  must  still  do  the  dull  and 
ordinary  task.  They  cannot  stop  to  cherish  morbid- 
ness, to  feed  upon  their  sorrow;  they  must  care  for 
themselves  and  labour  for  others.  And  well  is  it  for 
them  that  it  is  so. 

The  Indian  camp  brings  unpleasant  memories  to 
Jen's  mind.  She  knows  it  belongs  to  old  Sun-in-the- 
North,  and  that  he  will  not  come  to  see  her  now,  nor 
could  she,  or  would  she,  go  to  him.  Between  her  and 
that  race  there  can  never  again  be  kindly  communion. 
And  now  she  sees,  for  the  first  time,  two  horsemen  rid- 
ing slowly  in  the  track  from  Fort  Desire  towards  Gal- 
braith's  Place.  She  notices  that  one  sits  upright,  and 
one  seems  leaning  forward  on  his  horse's  neck.  She 
shades  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  but  she  cannot  dis- 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON       127 

tinguish  who  they  are.  But  she  has  seen  men  tied  to 
their  horses  ride  as  that  man  is  riding,  when  stricken 
with  fever,  bruised  by  falling  timber,  lacerated  by  a 
grizzly,  wounded  by  a  bullet,  or  crushed  by  a  herd  of 
buffaloes.  She  remembered  at  that  moment  the  time 
that  a  horse  had  struck  Val  with  its  forefeet,  and  torn 
the  flesh  from  his  chest,  and  how  he  had  been  brought 
home  tied  to  a  broncho's  back. 

The  thought  of  this  drove  her  into  the  house,  to  have 
Val's  bed  prepared  for  the  sufferer,  whoever  he  was. 
Almost  unconsciously  she  put  on  the  little  table  beside 
the  bed  a  bunch  of  everlasting  prairie  flowers,  and 
shaded  the  light  to  the  point  of  quiet  and  comfort. 

Then  she  went  outside  again.  The  travellers  now 
were  not  far  away.  She  recognised  the  upright  rider. 
It  was  Pretty  Pierre.  The  other — she  could  not  tell. 
She  called  to  her  father.  She  had  a  fear  which  she  did 
not  care  to  face  alone.  "See,  see,  father,"  she  said, — 
"Pretty  Pierre  and — and  can  it  be  Val?"  For  the  mo- 
ment she  seemed  unable  to  stir.  But  the  old  man  shook 
his  head,  and  said:  "No,  Jen,  it  can't  be.  It  ain't  Val." 

Then  another  thought  possessed  her.  Her  lips  trem- 
bled, and,  throwing  her  head  back  as  does  a  deer  when 
it  starts  to  shake  off  its  pursuers  by  flight,  she  ran  swiftly 
towards  the  riders.  The  traveller  standing  beside  Gal- 
braith  said:  "That  man  is  hurt,  wounded  probably. 
I  didn't  expect  to  have  a  patient  in  the  middle  of  the 
plains.  I'm  a  doctor.  Perhaps  I  can  be  of  use  here?" 

When  a  hundred  yards  away  Jen  recognised  the  re- 
cumbent rider.  A  thousand  thoughts  flashed  through 
her  brain.  What  had  happened?  Why  was  he  dressed 
in  civilian's  clothes?  A  moment,  and  she  was  at  his 
horse's  head.  Another,  and  her  warm  hand  clasped  the 
pale,  moist,  and  wrinkled  one  which  hung  by  the  horse's 


128  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

neck.  His  coat  at  the  shoulder  was  stained  with  blood, 
and  there  was  a  handkerchief  about  his  head.  This — 
this  was  Sergeant  Tom  Gellatly! 

She  looked  up  at  Pierre,  an  agony  of  inquiry  in  her 
eyes,  and  pointing  mutely  to  the  wounded  man.  Pierre 
spoke  with  a  tone  of  seriousness  not  common  to  his 
voice:  "You  see,  Jen  Galbraith,  it  was  brave.  Ser- 
geant Tom  one  day  resigns  the  Mounted  Police.  He 
leaves  the  Riders  of  the  Plains.  That  is  not  easy  to 
understand,  for  he  is  in  much  favour  with  the  officers. 
But  he  buys  himself  out,  and  there  is  the  end  of  the 
Sergeant  and  his  triple  chevron.  That  is  one  day.  That 
night,  two  men  on  a  ferry  are  crossing  the  Saskatchewan 
at  Fort  Desire.  They  are  fired  at  from  the  shore  be- 
hind. One  man  is  hit  twice.  But  they  get  across,  cut 
the  ferry  loose,  mount  horses,  and  ride  away  together. 
The  man  that  was  hit — yes,  Sergeant  Tom.  The  other 
that  was  not  hit  was  Val  Galbraith." 

Jen  gave  a  cry  of  mingled  joy  and  pain,  and  said,  with 
Tom  Gellatly's  cold  hand  clasped  to  her  bosom:  "Val, 
our  Val,  is  free,  is  safe." 

"Yes,  Val  is  free  and  safe — quite.  The  Riders  of  the 
Plains  could  not  cross  the  river.  It  was  too  high.  And 
so  Tom  Gellatly  and  Val  got  away.  Val  rides  straight 
for  the  American  border,  and  the  other  rides  here." 

They  were  now  near  the  house,  but  Jen  said,  eagerly: 
"Goon.  Tell  me  all." 

"I  knew  what  had  happened  soon,  and  I  rode  away, 
too,  and  last  night  I  found  Tom  Gellatly  lying  beside 
his  horse  on  the  prairie.  I  have  brought  him  here  to 
you.  You  two  are  even  now,  Jen  Galbraith." 

They  were  at  the  tavern  door.  The  traveller  and 
Pierre  lifted  down  the  wounded  and  unconscious  man, 
and  brought  him  and  laid  him  on  Val  Galbraith's  bed. 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON       129 

The  traveller  examined  the  wounds  in  the  shoulder  and 
the  head,  and  said:  "The  head  is  all  right.  If  I  can 
get  the  bullet  out  of  the  shoulder  he'll  be  safe  enough— 
in  time." 

The  surgery  was  skilful  but  rude,  for  proper  instru- 
ments were  not  at  hand;  and  in  a  few  hours  he,  whom 
we  shall  still  call  Sergeant  Tom,  lay  quietly  sleeping, 
the  pallor  gone  from  his  face  and  the  feeling  of  death 
from  his  hand. 

It  was  near  midnight  when  he  waked.  Jen  was 
sitting  beside  him.  He  looked  round  and  saw  her. 
Her  face  was  touched  with  the  light  that  shone  from 
the  Prairie  Star.  "Jen,"  he  said,  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

She  turned  from  the  window  and  stood  beside  his 
bed.  She  took  his  outstretched  hand.  "You  are  better, 
Sergeant  Tom?"  she  said,  gently. 

"Yes,  I'm  better;  but  it's  not  Sergeant  Tom  I  am 
any  longer,  Jen." 

"I  forgot  that." 

"I  owed  you  a  great  debt,  Jen.  I  couldn't  remain  one 
of  the  Riders  of  the  Plains  and  try  to  pay  it.  I  left 
them.  Then  I  tried  to  save  Val,  and  I  did.  I  knew  how 
to  do  it  without  getting  anyone  else  into  trouble.  It 
is  well  to  know  the  trick  of  a  lock  and  the  hour  that 
guard  is  changed.  I  had  left,  but  I  relieved  guard  that 
night  just  the  same.  It  was  a  new  man  on  watch.  It's 
only  a  minute  I  had;  for  the  regular  relief  watch  was 
almost  at  my  heels.  I  got  Val  out  just  in  time.  They 
discovered  us,  and  we  had  a  run  for  it.  Pretty  Pierre 
has  told  you.  That's  right.  Val  is  safe  now— 

In  a  low  strained  voice,  interrupting  him,  she  said, 
"Did  Val  leave  you  wounded  so  on  the  prairie?" 

"Don't  let  that  ate  at  your  heart.    No,  he  didn't. 


130  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

I  hurried  him  off,  and  he  didn't  know  how  bad  I  was 
hit.  But  I — I've  paid  my  debt,  haven't  I,  Jen?" 

With  eyes  that  could  not  see  for  tears,  she  touched 
pityingly,  lovingly,  the  wounds  on  his  head  and 
shoulder,  and  said:  "These  pay  a  greater  debt  than  you 
ever  owed  me.  You  risked  your  life  for  me — yes,  for 
me.  You  have  given  up  everything  to  do  it.  I  can't 
pay  you  the  great  difference.  No,  never!" 

"Yes — yes,  you  can,  if  you  will,  Jen.  It's  as  aisy! 
If  you'll  say  what  I  say,  I'll  give  you  quit  of  that  dif- 
ference, as  you  call  it,  forever  and  ever." 

"First,  tell  me.    Is  Val  quite,  quite  safe?" 

"Yes,  he's  safe  over  the  border  by  this  time;  and 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  the  Riders  of  the  Plains  wouldn't 
be  dyin'  to  arrest  him  again  if  he  was  in  Canada, 
which  he  isn't.  It's  little  they  wanted  to  fire  at  us,  I 
know,  when  we  were  crossin'  the  river,  but  it  had  to 
be  done,  you  see,  and  us  within  sight.  Will  you  say 
what  I  ask  you,  Jen?" 

She  did  not  speak,  but  pressed  his  hand  ever  so 
slightly. 

"Tom  Gellatly,  I  promise,"  he  said. 

"Tom  Gellatly,  I  promise—" 

"To  give  you  as  much— 

"To  give  you  as  much — " 

"Love—" 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  she  falteringly  said, 
"Love—" 

"As  you  give  to  me — " 

"As  you  give  to  me — " 

"And  I'll  take  you  poor  as  you  are — " 

"And  I'll  take  you  poor  as  you  are — " 

"To  be  my  husband  as  long  as  you  live — " 

"To  be  my  husband  as  long  as  you  live — " 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON       131 

"So  help  me,  God." 

"So  help  me,  God." 

She  stooped  with  dropping  tears,  and  he  kissed  her 
once.  Then  what  was  girl  in  her  timidly  drew  back, 
while  what  was  woman  in  her,  and  therefore  maternal, 
yearned  over  the  sufferer. 

They  had  not  seen  the  figure  of  an  old  man  at  the 
door.  They  did  not  hear  him  enter.  They  only  knew 
of  Peter  Galbraith's  presence  when  he  said:  "Mebbe — 
mebbe  I  might  say  Amen!" 


THEEE  OUTLAWS 


THREE   OUTLAWS 

THE  missionary  at  Fort  Anne  of  the  H.  B.  C.  was  vio- 
lently in  earnest.  Before  he  piously  followed  the  latest 
and  most  amply  endowed  batch  of  settlers,  who  had 
in  turn  preceded  the  new  railway  to  the  Fort,  the  word 
scandal  had  no  place  in  the  vocabulary  of  the  citizens. 
The  H.  B.  C.  had  never  imported  it  into  the  Chinook 
language,  the  common  meeting-ground  of  all  the  tribes 
of  the  North;  and  the  British  men  and  native-born, 
who  made  the  Fort  then*  home,  or  place  of  sojourn,  had 
never  found  need  for  its  use.  Justice  was  so  quickly 
distributed,  men  were  so  open  in  then-  conduct,  good 
and  bad,  that  none  looked  askance,  nor  put  their  actions 
in  ambush,  nor  studied  innuendo.  But  this  was  not 
according  to  the  new  dispensation — that  is,  the  dispen- 
sation which  shrewdly  followed  the  settlers,  who  as 
shrewdly  preceded  the  railway.  And  the  dispensation 
and  the  missionary  were  known  also  as  the  Reverend 
Ezra  Badgley,  who,  on  his  own  declaration,  in  times  past 
had  "a  call"  to  preach,  and  in  the  far  East  had  served  as 
local  preacher,  then  probationer,  then  went  on  circuit, 
and  now  was  missionary  in  a  district  of  which  the  choice 
did  credit  to  his  astuteness,  and  gave  room  for  his 
piety  and  for  his  holy  rage  against  the  Philistines.  He 
loved  a  word  for  righteous  mouthing,  and  in  a  moment 
of  inspiration  pagan  and  scandal  came  to  him.  Upon 
these  two  words  he  stamped,  through  them  he  per- 
spired mightily,  and  with  them  he  clenched  his  stubby 
fingers — such  fingers  as  dug  trenches,  or  snatched  lewdly 
at  soft  flesh,  in  days  of  barbarian  battle.  To  him  all 

135 


136  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

men  were  Pagans  who  loved  not  the  sound  of  his  voice, 
nor  wrestled  with  him  in  prayer  before  the  Lord,  nor 
fed  him  with  rich  food,  nor  gave  him  much  strong  green 
tea  to  drink.  But  these  men  were  of  opaque  stuff,  and 
were  not  dismayed,  and  they  called  him  St.  Anthony, 
and  with  a  prophetic  and  deadly  patience  waited.  The 
time  came  when  the  missionary  shook  his  denouncing 
finger  mostly  at  Pretty  Pierre,  who  carefully  nursed  his 
silent  wrath  until  the  occasion  should  arrive  for  a  deli- 
cate revenge  which  hath  its  hour  with  every  man,  if, 
hating,  he  knows  how  to  bide  the  will  of  Fate. 

The  hour  came.  A  girl  had  been  found  dying  on  the 
roadside  beyond  the  Fort  by  the  drunken  doctor  of  the 
place  and  Pierre.  Pierre  was  with  her  when  she  died. 

"An'  who's  to  bury  her,  the  poor  colleen?"  said 
Shon  McGann  afterwards. 

Pierre  musingly  replied :  ' '  She  is  a  Protestant.  There 
is  but  one  man." 

After  many  pertinent  and  vigorous  remarks,  Shon 
added,  "A  Pagan  is  it  he  calls  you,  Pierre,  you  that's 
had  the  holy  water  on  y'r  forehead,  and  the  cross  on  the 
water,  and  that  knows  the  book  o'  the  Mass  like  the 
cards  in  a  pack?  Sinner  y'  are,  and  so  are  we  all,  God 
save  us!  say  I;  and  weavin'  the  stripes  for  our  backs  He 
may  be,  and  little  I'd  think  of  Him  failin'  in  that:  but 
Pagan — faith,  it's  black  should  be  the  white  of  the 
eyes  of  that  preachin'  sneak,  and  a  rattle  of  teeth  in  his 
throat — divils  go  round  me!" 

The  half-breed,  still  musing,  replied:  "An  eye  for 
an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth — is  that  it,  Shon?" 

"Nivir  a  word  truer  by  song  or  by  book,  and  stand 
by  the  text,  say  I.  For  Papist  I  am,  and  Papist  are  you; 
and  the  imps  from  below  hi  y'r  fingers  whin  poker  is 
the  game;  and  outlaws  as  they  call  us  both — you  for 


THREE  OUTLAWS  137 

what  it  doesn't  concern  me,  and  I  for  a  wild  night  in 
ould  Donegal — but  Pagan,  wurra!  whin  shall  it  be, 
Pierre?" 

"When  shall  it  to  be?" 

"True  for  you.  The  teeth  in  his  throat  and  a  lump 
to  his  eye,  and  what  more  be  the  will  o'  God.  Fightin' 
there'll  be,  av  coorse;  but  by  you  I'll  stand,  and  sorra 
inch  will  I  give,  if  they'll  do  it  with  sticks  or  with  guns, 
and  not  with  the  blisterin'  tongue  that's  lied  of  me  and 
me  frinds — for  frind  I  call  you,  Pierre,  that  loved  me 
little  in  days  gone  by.  And  proud  I  am  not  of  you,  nor 
you  of  me;  but  we've  tasted  the  bitter  of  avil  days  to- 
gether, and  divils  surround  me,  if  I  don't  go  down  with 
you  or  come  up  with  you,  whichever  it  be!  For  there's 
dirt,  as  I  say  on  their  tongues,  and  over  their  shoulder 
they  look  at  you,  and  not  with  an  eye  full  front." 

Pierre  was  cool,  even  pensive.  His  lips  parted  slightly 
once  or  twice,  and  showed  a  row  of  white,  malicious 
teeth.  For  the  rest,  he  looked  as  if  he  were  politely 
interested  but  not  moved  by  the  excitement  of  the  other. 
He  slowly  rolled  a  cigarette  and  replied:  "He  says  it  is 
a  scandal  that  I  live  at  Fort  Anne.  Well,  I  was  here 
before  he  came,  and  I  shall  be  here  after  he  goes — yes. 
A  scandal — tsh!  what  is  that?  You  know  the  word 
Raca  of  the  Book?  Well,  there  shall  be  more  Raca  soon 
— perhaps.  No,  there  shall  not  be  fighting  as  you  think, 
Shon;  but — "  here  Pierre  rose,  came  over,  and  spread 
his  fingers  lightly  on  Shon's  breast — "but  this  thing  is 
between  this  man  and  me,  Shon  McGann,  and  you  shall 
see  a  great  matter.  Perhaps  there  will  be  blood,  per- 
haps not — perhaps  only  an  end."  And  the  half-breed 
looked  up  at  the  Irishman  from  under  his  dark  brows 
so  covertly  and  meaningly  that  Shon  saw  visions  of  a 
trouble  as  silent  as  a  plague,  as  resistless  as  a  great 


138  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

flood.  This  noiseless  vengeance  was  not  after  his 
own  heart.  He  almost  shivered  as  the  delicate  fingers 
drummed  on  his  breast. 

"Angels  begird  me,  Pretty  Pierre,  but  it's  little  I'd 
like  you  for  enemy  o'  mine;  for  I  know  that  you'd  wait 
for  y'r  foe  with  death  in  y'r  hand,  and  pity  far  from  y'r 
heart;  and  y'd  smile  as  you  pulled  the  black-cap  on  y'r 
head,  and  laugh  as  you  drew  the  life  out  of  him,  God 
knows  how!  Arrah,  give  me,  sez  I,  the  crack  of  a  stick, 
the  bite  of  a  gun,  or  the  clip  of  a  sabre's  edge,  with  a 
shout  in  y'r  mouth  the  while!" 

Though  Pierre  still  listened  lazily,  there  was  a  wicked 
fire  in  his  eyes.  His  words  now  came  from  his  teeth 
with  cutting  precision.  "I  have  a  great  thought  to- 
night, Shon  McGann.  I  will  tell  you  when  we  meet 
again.  But,  my  friend,  one  must  not  be  too  rash — no, 
not  too  brutal.  Even  the  sabre  should  fall  at  the  right 
time,  and  then  swift  and  still.  Noise  is  not  battle. 
Well,  au  revoir!  To-morrow  I  shall  tell  you  many 
things."  He  caught  Shon's  hand  quickly,  as  quickly 
dropped  it,  and  went  out  indolently  singing  a  favourite 
song, — "  Void  le  sabre  de  mon  Pere  !" 

It  was  dark.  Pretty  Pierre  stood  still,  and  thought 
for  a  while.  At  last  he  spoke  aloud:  "Well,  I  shall  do 
it,  now  I  have  him — so!"  And  he  opened  and  shut  his 
hand  swiftly  and  firmly.  He  moved  on,  avoiding  the 
more  habited  parts  of  the  place,  and  by  a  roundabout 
came  to  a  house  standing  very  close  to  the  bank  of  the 
river.  He  went  softly  to  the  door  and  listened.  Light 
shone  through  the  curtain  of  a  window.  He  went  to  the 
window  and  looked  beneath  the  curtain.  Then  he  came 
back  to  the  door,  opened  it  very  gently,  stepped  inside, 
and  closed  it  behind  him. 

A  man  seated  at  a  table,  eating,  rose;  a  man  on  whom 


THREE  OUTLAWS  139 

greed  had  set  its  mark — greed  of  the  flesh,  greed  of  men's 
praise,  greed  of  money.  His  frame  was  thick-set,  his 
body  was  heavily  nourished,  his  eye  was  shifty  but 
intelligent;  and  a  close  observer  would  have  seen 
something  elusive,  something  furtive  and  sinister,  in 
his  face.  His  lips  were  greasy  with  meat  as  he  stood 
up,  and  a  fear  sprang  to  his  face,  so  that  its  fat  looked 
sickly.  But  he  said  hoarsely,  and  with  an  attempt  at 
being  brave — "How  dare  you  enter  my  house  with- 
out knocking?  What  do  you  want?" 

The  half-breed  waved  a  hand  protestingly  towards 
him.  "Pardon!"  he  said.  "Be  seated,  and  finish 
your  meal.  Do  you  know  me?  " 

"Yes,  I  know  you." 

"Well,  as  I  said,  do  not  stop  your  meal.  I  have  come 
to  speak  with  you  very  quietly  about  a  scandal — a 
scandal,  you  understand.  This  is  Sunday  night,  a  good 
time  to  talk  of  such  things."  Pierre  seated  himself 
at  the  table,  opposite  the  man. 

But  the  man  replied:  "I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you. 
You  are — " 

The  half-breed  interrupted:  "Yes,  I  know,  a  Pagan 
fattening — "  here  he  smiled,  and  looked  at  his  thin 
hands — "'fattening  for  the  shambles  of  the  damned/ 
as  you  have  said  from  the  pulpit,  Reverend  Ezra  Badg- 
ley.  But  you  will  permit  me — a  sinner  as  you  say — to 
speak  to  you  like  this  while  you  sit  down  and  eat.  I 
regret  to  disturb  you,  but  you  mil  sit,  eh?" 

Pierre's  tone  was  smooth  and  low,  almost  deferential, 
and  his  eyes,  wide  open  now,  and  hot  with  some  hidden 
purpose,  were  fixed  compellingly  on  the  man.  The 
missionary  sat,  and,  having  recovered  slightly,  fumbled 
with  a  knife  and  fork.  A  napkin  was  still  beneath  his 
greasy  chin.  He  did  not  take  it  away. 


140  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

Pierre  then  spoke  slowly:  "Yes,  it  is  a  scandal  con- 
cerning a  sinner — and  a  Pagan.  .  .  .  Will  you  permit 
me  to  light  a  cigarette?  Thank  you.  .  .  .  You  have 
said  many  harsh  things  about  me :  well,  as  you  see,  I  am 
amiable.  I  lived  at  Fort  Anne  before  you  came.  They 
call  me  Pretty  Pierre.  Why  is  my  cheek  so?  Because 
I  drink  no  wine;  I  eat  not  much.  Pardon,  pork  like 
that  on  your  plate — no!  no!  I  do  not  take  green  tea 
as  there  hi  your  cup;  I  do  not  love  women,  one  or  many. 
Again,  pardon,  I  say." 

The  other  drew  his  brows  together  with  an  attempt 
at  pious  frowning  and  indignation;  but  there  was  a 
cold,  sneering  smile  now  turned  upon  him,  and  it 
changed  the  frown  to  anxiety,  and  made  his  lips  twitch, 
and  the  food  he  had  eaten  grow  heavy  within  him. 

"I  come  to  the  scandal  slowly.  The  woman?  She 
was  a  young  girl  travelling  from  the  far  East,  to  search 
for  a  man  who  had — spoiled  her.  She  was  found  by  me 
and  another.  Ah,  you  start  so!  ...  Will  you  not 
listen?  .  .  .  Well,  she  died  to-night." 

Here  the  missionary  gasped,  and  caught  with  both 
hands  at  the  table. 

"But  before  she  died  she  gave  two  things  into  my 
hands:  a  packet  of  letters — a  man  is  a  fool  to  write  such 
letters — and  a  small  bottle  of  poison — laudanum,  old- 
fashioned  but  sure.  The  letters  were  from  the  man  at 
Fort  Anne — the  man,  you  hear!  The  other  was  for  her 
death,  if  he  would  not  take  her  to  his  arms  again. 
Women  are  mad  when  they  love.  And  so  she  came  to 
Fort  Anne,  but  not  in  time.  The  scandal  is  great,  be- 
cause the  man  is  holy — sit  down!" 

The  half-breed  said  the  last  two  words  sharply,  but 
not  loudly.  They  both  sat  down  slowly  again,  look- 
ing each  other  in  the  eyes.  Then  Pierre  drew  from 


THREE  OUTLAWS  141 

his  pocket  a  small  bottle  and  a  packet  of  letters,  and 
held  them  before  him.  "I  have  this  to  say:  there  are 
citizens  of  Fort  Anne  who  stand  for  justice  more  than 
law;  who  have  no  love  for  the  ways  of  St.  Anthony. 
There  is  a  Pagan,  too,  an  outlaw,  who  knows  when  it 
is  time  to  give  blow  for  blow  with  the  holy  man.  Well, 
we  understand  each  other,  hein?" 

The  elusive,  sinister  look  hi  the  missionary's  face 
was  etched  in  strong  lines  now.  A  dogged  sullenness 
hung  about  his  lips.  He  noticed  that  one  hand  only  of 
Pretty  Pierre  was  occupied  with  the  relics  of  the  dead 
girl ;  the  other  was  free  to  act  suddenly  on  a  hip  pocket. 
"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  he  said,  not  whiningly, 
for  beneath  the  selfish  flesh  and  shallow  outworks  there 
were  the  elements  of  a  warrior — all  pulpy  now,  but  they 
were  there. 

"This,"  was  the  reply:  "for  you  to  make  one  more 
outlaw  at  Fort  Anne  by  drinking  what  is  in  this  bottle 
— sit  down,  quick,  by  God!"  He  placed  the  bottle 
within  reach  of  the  other.  "Then  you  shall  have  these 
letters;  and  there  is  the  fire.  After?  Well,  you  will 
have  a  great  sleep,  the  good  people  will  find  you,  they 
will  bury  you,  weeping  much,  and  no  one  knows  here 
but  me.  Refuse  that,  and  there  is  the  other,  the  Law — 
ah,  the  poor  girl  was  so  very  young! — and  the  wild  Jus- 
tice which  is  sometimes  quicker  than  Law.  Well?  well?  " 

The  missionary  sat  as  if  paralysed,  his  face  all  grey, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  half-breed.  "Are  you  man  or 
devil?"  he  groaned  at  length. 

With  a  slight,  fantastic  gesture  Pierre  replied :  "  It  was 
said  that  a  devil  entered  into  me  at  birth,  but  that  was 
mere  scandal — peut-etre.  You  shall  think  as  you  will." 

There  was  silence.  The  sullenness  about  the  mis- 
sionary's lips  became  charged  with  a  contempt  more 


142  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

animal  than  human.  The  Reverend  Ezra  Badgley  knew 
that  the  man  before  him  was  absolute  in  his  determina- 
tion, and  that  the  Pagans  of  Fort  Anne  would  show  him 
little  mercy,  while  his  flock  would  leave  him  to  his  fate. 
He  looked  at  the  bottle.  The  silence  grew,  so  that  the 
ticking  of  the  watch  in  the  missionary  's  pocket  could  be 
heard  plainly,  having  for  its  background  of  sound  the 
continuous  swish  of  the  river.  Pretty  Pierre's  eyes  were 
never  taken  off  the  other,  whose  gaze,  again,  was  fixed 
upon  the  bottle  with  a  terrible  fascination.  An  hour, 
two  hours,  passed.  The  fire  burned  lower.  It  was  mid- 
night; and  now  the  watch  no  longer  ticked;  it  had  ful- 
filled its  day's  work.  The  missionary  shuddered  slightly 
at  this.  He  looked  up  to  see  the  resolute  gloom  of  the 
half-breed's  eyes,  and  that  sneering  smile,  fixed  upon 
him  still.  Then  he  turned  once  more  to  the  bottle.  .  .  . 
His  heavy  hand  moved  slowly  towards  it.  His  stubby 
fingers  perspired  and  showed  sickly  in  the  light.  .  .  . 
They  closed  about  the  bottle.  Then  suddenly  he  raised 
it,  and  drained  it  at  a  draught.  He  sighed  once  heavily 
and  as  if  a  great  inward  pain  was  over.  Rising  he 
took  the  letters  silently  pushed  towards  him,  and 
dropped  them  into  the  fire.  He  went  to  the  window, 
raised  it,  and  threw  the  bottle  into  the  river.  The  cork 
was  left:  Pierre  pointed  to  it.  He  took  it  up  with  a 
strange  smile  and  thrust  it  into  the  coals.  Then  he  sat 
down  by  the  table,  leaning  his  arms  upon  it,  his  eyes 
staring  painfully  before  him,  and  the  forgotten  napkin 
still  about  his  neck.  Soon  the  eyes  closed,  and,  with  a 
moan  on  his  lips,  his  head  dropped  forward  on  his  arms. 
.  .  .  Pierre  rose,  and,  looking  at  the  figure  soon  to  be 
breathless  as  the  baked  meats  about  it,  said:  "Bien,  he 
was  not  all  coward.  No." 

Then  he  turned  and  went  out  into  the  night. 


SHON  McGANFS  TOBOGAN  BIDE 


SHON  McGANN'S  TOBOGAN  RIDE 

0  Oh,  it's  down  the  long  side  of  Farcalladen  Rise, 

With  the  knees  pressing  hard  to  the  saddle,  my  men; 
With  the  sparks  from  the  hoofs  giving  light  to  the  eyes, 
And  our  hearts  beating  hard  as  we  rode  to  the  glen! — 

"  And  it's  back  with  the  ring  of  the  chain  and  the  spur, 
And  it's  back  with  the  sun  on  the  hill  and  the  moor, 
And  it's  back  is  the  thought  sets  my  pulses  astir! — 
But  I'll  never  go  back  to  Farcalladen  more." 

SHON  McGANN  was  lying  on  a  pile  of  buffalo  robes  in 
a  mountain  hut, — an  Australian  would  call  it  a  humpey, 
— singing  thus  to  himself  with  his  pipe  between  his 
teeth.  In  the  room,  besides  Shon,  were  Pretty  Pierre, 
Jo  Gordineer,  the  Hon.  Just  Trafford,  called  by  his  com- 
panions simply  "The  Honourable,"  and  Prince  Levis, 
the  owner  of  the  establishment.  Not  that  Monsieur 
Levis,  the  French  Canadian,  was  really  a  Prince.  The 
name  was  given  to  him  with  a  humorous  cynicism 
peculiar  to  the  Rockies.  We  have  little  to  do  with 
Prince  Levis  here;  but  since  he  may  appear  elsewhere, 
this  explanation  is  made. 

Jo  Gordineer  had  been  telling  The  Honourable  about 
the  ghost  of  Guidon  Mountain,  and  Pretty  Pierre  was 
collaborating  with  their  host  in  the  preparation  of  what, 
in  the  presence  of  the  Law — that  is  of  the  North- West 
Mounted  Police — was  called  ginger-tea,  in  considera- 
tion of  the  prohibition  statute. 

Shon  McGann  had  been  left  to  himself — an  unusual 
thing;  for  everyone  had  a  shot  at  Shon  when  oppor- 

145 


146  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

tunity  occurred ;  and  never  a  bull's-eye  could  they  make 
on  him.  His  wit  was  like  the  shield  of  a  certain  person- 
age of  mythology. 

He  had  wandered  on  from  verse  to  verse  of  the  song 
with  one  eye  on  the  collaborators  and  an  ear  open  to 
The  Honourable's  polite  exclamations  of  wonder.  Jo 
had,  however,  come  to  the  end  of  his  weird  tale — for 
weird  it  certainly  was,  told  at  the  foot  of  Guidon  Moun- 
tain itself,  and  in  a  region  of  vast  solitudes — the  pair 
of  chemists  were  approaching  "the  supreme  union  of 
unctuous  elements,"  as  The  Honourable  put  it,  and  in 
the  silence  that  fell  for  a  moment  there  crept  the  words 
of  the  singer: 

"And  it's  down  the  long  side  of  Farcalladen  Rise, 

And  it's  swift  as  an  arrow  and  straight  as  a  spear — " 

Jo  Gordineer  interrupted.  "Say,  Shon,  when'll  you 
be  through  that  tobogan  ride  of  yours?  Aint  there  any 
end  to  it?" 

But  Shon  was  looking  with  both  eyes  now  at  the  col- 
laborators, and  he  sang  softly  on: 

"And  it's  keen  as  the  frost  when  the  summer-time  dies, 
That  we  rode  to  the  glen  and  with  never  a  fear." 

Then  he  added:  "The  end's  cut  off,  Joey,  me  boy; 
but  what's  a  tobogan  ride,  annyway?" 

"Listen  to  that,  Pierre.  I'll  be  eternally  shivered  if 
he  knows  what  a  tobogan  ride  is!" 

"Hot  shivers  it'll  be  for  you,  Joey,  me  boy,  and  no 
quinine  over  the  bar  aither,"  said  Shon. 

"Tell  him  what  a  tobogan  ride  is,  Pierre." 

And  Pretty  Pierre  said:   "Eh,  well,  I  will  tell  you. 


SHON  McGANN'S  TOBOGAN  RIDE     147 

It  is  like — no,  you  have  the  word  precise,  Joseph.    Eh? 
What?" 

Pierre  then  added  something  in  French.  Shon  did 
not  understand  it,  but  he  saw  The  Honourable  smile, 
so  with  a  gentle  kind  of  contempt  he  went  on  singing: 

"And  it's  hey  for  the  hedge,  and  it's  hey  for  the  wall  I 

And  it's  over  the  stream  with  an  echoing  cry; 
And  there's  three  fled  for  ever  from  old  Donegal, 
And  there's  two  that  have  shown  how  bold  Irishmen  die." 

The  Honourable  then  said,  "What  is  that  all  about, 
Shon?  I  never  heard  the  song  before." 

"No  more  you  did.  And  I  wish  I  could  see  the  lad 
that  wrote  that  song,  livin'  or  dead.  If  one  of  ye's  will 
tell  me  about  your  tobogan  rides,  I'll  unfold  about  Far- 
calladen  Rise." 

Prince  Levis  passed  the  liquor.  Pretty  Pierre,  seated 
on  a  candle-box,  with  a  glass  in  his  delicate  fingers,  said : 

"Eh,  well,  the  Honourable  has  much  language.  He 
can  speak,  precise — this  would  be  better  with  a  little 
lemon,  just  a  little, — the  Honourable,  he,  perhaps,  will 
tell.  Eh?" 

Pretty  Pierre  was  showing  his  white  teeth.  At  this 
stage  in  his  career,  he  did  not  love  the  Honourable. 
The  Honourable  understood  that,  but  he  made  clear 
to  Shon's  mind  what  toboganing  is. 

And  Shon,  on  his  part,  with  fresh  and  hearty  voice, 
touched  here  and  there  by  a  plaintive  modulation,  told 
about  that  ride  on  Farcalladen  Rise;  a  tale  of  broken 
laws,  and  fight  and  fighting,  and  death  and  exile;  and 
never  a  word  of  hatred  in  it  all. 

"And  the  writer  of  the  song,  who  was  he?"  asked  the 
Honourable. 


148  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"A  gentleman  after  God's  own  heart.  Heaven  rest 
his  soul,  if  he's  dead,  which  I'm  thinkin'  is  so,  and  give 
him  the  luck  of  the  world  if  he's  livin',  say  I.  But  it's 
little  I  know  what's  come  to  him.  In  the  heart  of  Aus- 
tralia I  saw  him  last;  and  mates  we  were  together  after 
gold.  And  little  gold  did  we  get  but  what  was  in  the 
heart  of  him.  And  we  parted  one  day,  I  carryin' 
the  song  that  he  wrote  for  me  of  Farcalladen  Rise,  and 
the  memory  of  him;  and  him  givin'  me  the  word, — 
'I'll  not  forget  you,  Shon,  me  boy,  whatever  comes;  re- 
member that.  And  a  short  pull  of  the  Three-Star  to- 
gether for  the  partin'  salute,'  says  he.  And  the  Three- 
Star  hi  one  sup  each  we  took,  as  solemn  as  the  Mass,  and 
he  went  away  towards  Cloncurry  and  I  to  the  coast; 
and  that's  the  last  that  I  saw  of  him,  now  three  years 
gone.  And  here  I  am,  and  I  wish  I  was  with  him 
wherever  he  is." 

"What  was  his  name?"  said  the  Honourable. 

"  Lawless." 

The  ringers  of  the  Honourable  trembled  on  his  cigar. 
"Very  interesting,  Shon,"  he  said,  as  he  rose,  puffing 
hard  till  his  face  was  in  a  cloud  of  smoke.  "You  had 
many  adventures  together,  I  suppose,"  he  continued. 

"Adventures  we  had  and  sufFerin'  bewhiles,  and  fun, 
too,  to  the  neck  and  flowin'  over." 

"You'll  spin  us  a  long  yarn  about  them  another  night, 
Shon?"  said  the  Honourable. 

"I'll  do  it  now — a  yarn  as  long  as  the  lies  of  the  Gov- 
ernment; and  proud  of  the  chance." 

"Not  to-night,  Shon"  (there  was  a  kind  of  huskiness 
in  the  voice  of  the  Honourable);  "it's  tune  to  turn  in. 
We've  a  long  tramp  over  the  glacier  to-morrow,  and 
we  must  start  at  sunrise." 

The  Honourable  was  in  command  of  the  party, 


SHON  McGANN'S  TOBOGAN  RIDE      149 

though  Jo  Gordineer  was  the  guide,  and  all  were,  for 
the  moment,  miners,  making  for  the  little  Goshen  Field 
over  in  Pipi  Valley. — At  least  Pretty  Pierre  said  he  was 
a  miner. 

No  one  thought  of  disputing  the  authority  of  the 
Honourable,  and  they  all  rose. 

In  a  few  minutes  there  was  silence  in  the  hut,  save  for 
the  oracular  breathing  of  Prince  Levis  and  the  sparks 
from  the  fire.  But  the  Honourable  did  not  sleep 
well;  he  lay  and  watched  the  fire  through  most  of  the 
night. 

The  day  was  clear,  glowing,  decisive.  Not  a  cloud  in 
the  curve  of  azure,  not  a  shiver  of  wind  down  the  canon, 
not  a  frown  in  Nature,  if  we  except  the  lowering  shadows 
from  the  shoulders  of  the  giants  of  the  range.  Crown- 
ing the  shadows  was  a  splendid  helmet  of  light,  rich  with 
the  dyes  of  the  morning;  the  pines  were  touched  with  a 
brilliant  if  austere  warmth.  The  pride  of  lofty  lineage 
and  severe  isolation  was  regnant  over  all.  And  up 
through  the  splendour,  and  the  shadows,  and  the  loneli- 
ness, and  the  austere  warmth,  must  our  travellers  go. 
Must  go?  Scarcely  that,  but  the  Honourable  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  cross  the  glacier  and  none  sought  to  dis- 
suade him  from  his  choice;  the  more  so,  because  there 
was  something  of  danger  in  the  business.  Pretty  Pierre 
had  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  the  suggestion, 
and  had  said: 

"Nom  de  Dieu,  the  higher  we  go  the  faster  we  live, 
that  is  something." 

"Sometimes  we  live  ourselves  to  death  too  quickly. 
In  my  schooldays  I  watched  a  mouse  in  a  jar  of  oxygen 
do  that,"  said  the  Honourable. 

"That  is  the  best  way  to  die,"  remarked  the  half- 
breed — "much." 


150  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

Jo  Gordineer  had  been  over  the  path  before.  He 
was  confident  of  the  way,  and  proud  of  his  office  of 
guide. 

"Climb  Mont  Blanc,  if  you  will,"  said  the  Honour- 
able, "but  leave  me  these  white  bastions  of  the  Sel- 
kirks." 

Even  so.  They  have  not  seen  the  snowy  hills  of  God 
who  have  yet  to  look  upon  the  Rocky  Mountains,  ab- 
solute, stupendous,  sublimely  grave. 

Jo  Gordineer  and  Pretty  Pierre  strode  on  together. 
,  They  being  well  away  from  the  other  two,  the  Honour- 
able turned  and  said  to  Shon:  "What  was  the  name 
of  the  man  who  wrote  that  song  of  yours,  again,  Shon?" 

"Lawless." 

"Yes,  but  his  first  name?" 

"Duke — Duke  Lawless." 

There  was  a  pause,  hi  which  the  other  seemed  to  be 
intently  studying  the  glacier  above  them.  Then  he 
said:  "What  was  he  like? — in  appearance,  I  mean." 

"A  trifle  more  than  your  six  feet,  about  your  colour 
of  hair  and  eyes,  and  with  a  trick  of  smilin'  that  would 
melt  the  heart  of  an  exciseman,  and  0' Council's  own 
at  a  joke,  barrin'  a  time  or  two  that  he  got  hold  of  a  pile 
of  papers  from  the  ould  country.  By  the  grave  of  St. 
Shon!  thin  he  was  as  dry  of  fun  as  a  piece  of  blotting- 
paper.  And  he  said  at  last,  before  he  was  aisy  and  free 
again,  'Shon,'  says  he,  'it's  better  to  burn  your  ships 
behind  ye,  isn't  it? ' 

"And  I,  havin'  thought  of  a  glen  in  ould  Ireland  that 
I'll  never  see  again,  nor  any  that's  in  it,  said:  'Not 
only  burn  them  to  the  water  'a  edge,  Duke  Lawless,  but 
swear  to  your  own  soul  that  they  never  lived  but  in  the 
dreams  of  the  night.' 

"'You're  right  there,  Shon,'  says  he,  and  after  that 


SHON  McGANN'S  TOBOGAN  RIDE     151 

no  luck  was  bad  enough  to  cloud  the  gay  heart  of  him, 
and  bad  enough  it  was  sometimes." 

"And  why  do  you  fear  that  he  is  not  alive?" 

"Because  I  met  an  old  mate  of  mine  one  day  on  the 
Frazer,  and  he  said  that  Lawless  had  never  come  to 
Cloncurry;  and  a  hard,  hard  road  it  was  to  travel." 

Jo  Gordineer  was  calling  to  them,  and  there  the  con- 
versation ended.  In  a  few  minutes  the  four  stood  on  the 
edge  of  the  glacier.  Each  man  had  a  long  hickory  stick 
which  served  as  alpenstock,  a  bag  hung  at  his  side,  and 
tied  to  his  back  was  his  gold-pan,  the  hollow  side  in, 
of  course.  Shon's  was  tied  a  little  lower  down  than  the 
others. 

They  passed  up  this  solid  river  of  ice,  this  giant  power 
at  endless  strife  with  the  high  hills,  up  towards  its  head. 
The  Honourable  was  the  first  to  reach  the  point  of  van- 
tage, and  to  look  down  upon  the  vast  and  wandering 
fissures,  the  frigid  bulwarks,  the  great  fortresses  of  ice, 
the  ceaseless  snows,  the  aisles  of  this  mountain  sanc- 
tuary through  which  Nature's  splendid  anthems  rolled. 
Shon  was  a  short  distance  below,  with  his  hand  over 
his  eyes,  sweeping  the  semi-circle  of  glory. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  sharp  cry  from  Pierre:  "Mon 
Dieu!  Look!" 

Shon  McGann  had  fallen  on  a  smooth  pavement  of 
ice.  The  gold-pan  was  beneath  him,  and  down  the 
glacier  he  was  whirled — whirled,  for  Shon  had  thrust 
his  heels  in  the  snow  and  ice,  and  the  gold-pan  performed 
a  series  of  circles  as  it  sped  down  the  incline.  His  fingers 
clutched  the  ice  and  snow,  but  they  only  left  a  red  mark 
of  blood  behind.  Must  he  go  the  whole  course  of  that 
frozen  slide,  plump  into  the  wild  depths  below? 

"Mon  Dieu  ! — mon  Dieu  /"  said  Pretty  Pierre,  pite- 
ously.  The  face  of  the  Honourable  was  set  and  tense. 


152  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

Jo  Gordineer's  hand  clutched  his  throat  as  if  he  choked. 
Still  Shon  sped.  It  was  a  matter  of  seconds  only.  The 
tragedy  crowded  to  the  awful  end. 

But,  no. 

There  was  a  tilt  in  the  glacier,  and  the  gold-pan,  sud- 
denly swirling,  again  swung  to  the  outer  edge,  and  shot 
over. 

As  if  hurled  from  a  catapult,  the  Irishman  was  ejected 
from  the  white  monster's  back.  He  fell  on  a  wide  shelf 
of  ice,  covered  with  light  snow,  through  which  he  was 
tunnelled,  and  dropped  on  another  ledge  below,  near  the 
path  by  which  he  and  his  companions  had  ascended. 

"Shied  from  the  finish,  by  God!"  said  Jo  Gordineer. 

"Le  pauvre  Shon!"  added  Pretty  Pierre. 

The  Honourable  was  making  his  way  down,  his  brain 
haunted  by  the  words,  "He'll  never  go  back  to  Farcal- 
laden  more." 

But  Jo  was  right. 

For  Shon  McGann  was  alive.  He  lay  breathless, 
helpless,  for  a  moment;  then  he  sat  up  and  scanned  his 
lacerated  fingers :  he  looked  up  the  path  by  which  he  had 
come;  he  looked  down  the  path  he  seemed  destined  to 
go;  he  started  to  scratch  his  head,  but  paused  in  the 
act,  by  reason  of  his  fingers. 

Then  he  said:  "It's  my  mother  wouldn't  know  me 
from  a  can  of  cold  meat  if  I  hadn't  stopped  at  this  sta- 
tion; but  wurrawurra,  what  a  car  it  was  to  come  in!" 
He  examined  his  tattered  clothes  and  bare  elbows; 
then  he  unbuckled  the  gold-pan,  and  no  easy  task  was 
it  with  his  ragged  fingers.  "'Twas  not  for  deep  minin' 
I  brought  ye,"  he  said  to  the  pan,  "nor  for  scrapin'  the 
clothes  from  me  back." 

Just  then  the  Honourable  came  up.  "Shon,  my 
man  .  .  .  alive,  thank  God!  How  is  it  with  you?" 


SHON  McGANN'S  TOBOGAN  RIDE     153 

"I'm  hardly  worth  the  lookin'  at.  I  wouldn't  turn 
my  back  to  ye  for  a  ransom." 

"It's  enough  that  you're  here  at  all." 

"Ahy'voild!  this  Irishman!"  said  Pretty  Pierre,  as 
his  light  fingers  touched  Shon's  bruised  arm  gently. 

This  from  Pretty  Pierre! 

There  was  that  in  the  voice  which  went  to  Shon's 
heart.  Who  could  have  guessed  that  this  outlaw  of  the 
North  would  ever  show  a  sign  of  sympathy  or  friend- 
ship for  anybody?  But  it  goes  to  prove  that  you  can 
never  be  exact  hi  your  estimate  of  character.  Jo  Gordi- 
neer  only  said  jestingly:  "Say,  now,  what  are  you 
doing,  Shon,  bringing  us  down  here,  when  we  might 
be  well  into  the  Valley  by  this  time?" 

"That  in  your  face  and  the  hah*  aff  your  head,"  said 
Shon;  "it's  little  you  know  a  tobogan  ride  when  you 
see  one.  I'll  take  my  share  of  the  grog,  by  the  same 
token." 

The  Honourable  uncorked  his  flask.  Shon  threw  back 
his  head  with  a  laugh. 

"  For  it's  rest  when  the  gallop  is  over,  me  men ! 
And  it's  here's  to  the  lads  that  have  ridden  their  last; 
And  it's  here's—" 

But  Shon  had  fainted  with  the  flask  in  his  hand  and 
this  snatch  of  a  song  on  his  lips. 

They  reached  shelter  that  night.  Had  it  not  been  for 
the  accident,  they  would  have  got  to  then*  destination 
in  the  Valley;  but  here  they  were  twelve  miles  from  it. 
Whether  this  was  fortunate  or  unfortunate  may  be  seen 
later.  Comfortably  bestowed  in  this  mountain  tavern, 
after  they  had  toasted  and  eaten  their  venison  and  lit 
their  pipes,  they  drew  about  the  fire. 


154  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

Besides  the  four,  there  was  a  figure  that  lay  sleeping 
in  a  corner  on  a  pile  of  pine  branches,  wrapped  in  a  bear- 
skin robe.  Whoever  it  was  slept  soundly. 

"And  what  was  it  like — the  gold-pan  flyer — the  to- 
bogan  ride,  Shon?"  remarked  Jo  Gordineer. 

"What  was  it  like? — what  was  it  like?"  replied  Shon. 
"Sure,  I  couldn't  see  what  it  was  like  for  the  stars  that 
were  hittin'  me  in  the  eyes.  There  wasn't  any  world  at 
all.  I  was  ridin'  on  a  streak  of  lightnin',  and  nivir  a 
rubber  for  the  wheels;  and  my  fingers  makin'  stripes  of 
blood  on  the  snow;  and  now  the  stars  that  were  hittin' 
me  were  white,  and  thin  they  were  red,  and  sometimes 
blue—" 

"The  Stars  and  Stripes,"  inconsiderately  remarked 
Jo  Gordineer. 

"And  there  wasn't  any  beginning  to  things,  nor  any 
end  of  them;  and  whin  I  struck  the  snow  and  cut  down 
the  core  of  it  like  a  cat  through  a  glass,  I  was  willin'  to 
say  with  the  Prophet  of  Ireland — " 

"Are  you  going  to  pass  the  liniment,  Pretty  Pierre?" 

It  was  Jo  Gordineer  said  that. 

What  the  Prophet  of  Israel  did  say — Israel  and  Ire- 
land were  identical  to  Shon — was  never  told. 

Shon's  bubbling  sarcasm  was  full-stopped  by  the 
beneficent  savour  that,  rising  now  from  the  hands  of 
the  four,  silenced  all  irrelevant  speech.  It  was  a  func- 
tion of  importance.  It  was  not  simply  necessary  to  say 
How  !  or  Here's  reformation  !  or  I  look  towards  you  !  As 
if  by  a  common  instinct,  the  Honourable,  Jo  Gordineer, 
and  Pretty  Pierre,  turned  towards  Shon  and  lifted  their 
glasses.  Jo  Gordineer  was  going  to  say:  "Here's  a  safe 
foot  in  the  stirrups  to  you,"  but  he  changed  his  mind 
and  drank  in  silence. 

Shon's  eye  had  been  blazing  with  fun,  but  it  took  on, 


SHON  McGANN'S  TOBOGAN  RIDE      155 

all  at  once,  a  misty  twinkle.  None  of  them  had  quite 
bargained  for  this.  The  feeling  had  come  like  a  wave 
of  soft  lightning,  and  had  passed  through  them.  Did 
it  come  from  the  Irishman  himself?  Was  it  his  own 
nature  acting  through  those  who  called  him  "partner"? 

Pretty  Pierre  got  up  and  kicked  savagely  at  the  wood 
in  the  big  fireplace.  He  ostentatiously  and  needlessly 
put  another  log  of  Norfolk-pine  upon  the  fire. 

The  Honourable  gaily  suggested  a  song. 

"Sing  us  ' Avec  les  Braves  Sauvages,'  Pierre,"  said  Jo 
Gordineer. 

But  Pierre  waved  his  fingers  towards  Shon:  "Shon, 
his  song — he  did  not  finish — on  the  glacier.  It  is  good 
we  hear  all.  Hein?" 

And  so  Shon  sang: 

"  Oh  it's  down  the  long  side  of  Farcalladen  Rise." 

The  sleeper  on  the  pine  branches  stirred  nervously, 
as  if  the  song  were  coming  through  a  dream  to  him.  At 
the  third  verse  he  started  up,  and  an  eager,  sun-burned 
face  peered  from  the  half-darkness  at  the  singer.  The 
Honourable  was  sitting  in  the  shadow,  with  his  back 
to  the  new  actor  in  the  scene. 

"  For  it's  rest  when  the  gallop  is  over,  my  men  I 
And  it's  here's  to  the  lads  that  have  ridden  their  last! 
And  it's  here's—" 

Shon  paused.  One  of  those  strange  lapses  of  memory 
came  to  him  which  come  at  times  to  most  of  us  concern- 
ing familiar  things.  He  could  get  no  further  than  he 
did  on  the  mountain  side.  He  passed  his  hand  over  his 
forehead,  stupidly: — "Saints  forgive  me;  but  it's  gone 
from  me,  and  sorra  the  one  can  I  get  it;  me  that  had  it 


156 

by  heart,  and  the  lad  that  wrote  it  far  away.    Death 
in  the  world,  but  I'll  try  it  again! 

"  For  it's  rest  when  the  gallop  is  over,  my  men ! 
And  it's  here's  to  the  lads  that  have  ridden  their  last! 
And  it's  here's—" 

Again  he  paused. 

But  from  the  half-darkness  there  came  a  voice,  a  clear 
baritone: 

"  And  here's  to  the  lasses  we  leave  in  the  glen, 
With  a  smile  for  the  future,  a  sigh  for  the  past." 

At  the  last  words  the  figure  strode  down  into  the  fire- 
light. 

"Shon,  old  friend,  don't  you  know  me?" 

Shon  had  started  to  his  feet  at  the  first  note  of  the 
voice,  and  stood  as  if  spellbound. 

There  was  no  shaking  of  hands.  Both  men  held  each 
other  hard  by  the  shoulders,  and  stood  so  for  a  moment 
looking  steadily  eye  to  eye. 

Then  Shon  said:  "Duke  Lawless,  there's  parallels  of 
latitude  and  parallels  of  longitude,  but  who  knows  the 
tomb  of  ould  Brian  Borhoune?" 

Which  was  his  way  of  saying,  "How  come  you  here?" 

Duke  Lawless  turned  to  the  others  before  he  replied. 
His  eyes  fell  on  the  Honourable.  With  a  start  and  a 
step  backward,  and  with  a  peculiar  angry  dryness  in 
his  voice,  he  said: 

"Just  Trafford!" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Honourable,  smiling,  "I  have 
found  you." 

"Found  me!  And  why  have  you  sought  me?  Me,. 
Duke  Lawless?  I  should  have  thought — " 


SHON  McGANN'S  TOBOGAN  RIDE     157 

The  Honourable  interrupted:  "To  tell  you  that  you 
are  Sir  Duke  Lawless." 

"That?    You  sought  me  to  tell  me  tfiatf" 

"I  did." 

"You  are  sure?   And  for  naught  else? " 

"As  I  live,  Duke." 

The  eyes  fixed  on  the  Honourable  were  searching. 
Sir  Duke  hesitated,  then  held  out  his  hand.  In  a  swift 
but  cordial  silence  it  was  taken.  Nothing  more  could 
be  said  then.  It  is  only  in  plays  where  gentlemen  freely 
discuss  family  affairs  before  a  curious  public.  Pretty 
Pierre  was  busy  with  a  decoction.  Jo  Gordineer  was 
his  associate.  Shon  had  drawn  back,  and  was  appa- 
rently examining  the  indentations  on  his  gold-pan. 

"Shon,  old  fellow,  come  here,"  said  Sir  Duke  Lawless. 

But  Shon  had  received  a  shock.  "It's  little  I  knew 
Sir  Duke  Lawless — "  he  said. 

"It's  little  you  needed  to  know  then,  or  need  to  know 
now,  Shon,  my  friend.  I'm  Duke  Lawless  to  you  here 
and  henceforth,  as  ever  I  was  then,  on  the  wallaby 
track." 

And  Shon  believed  him. 

The  glasses  were  ready. 

"I'll  give  the  toast,"  said  the  Honourable  with  a 
gentle  gravity.  "To  Shon  McGann  and  his  Tobogan 
Ride!" 

"I'll  drink  to  the  first  half  of  it  with  all  my  heart," 
said  Sir  Duke.  "It's  all  I  know  about." 

"Amen  to  that  divorce,"  rejoined  Shon. 

"But  were  it  not  for  the  Tobogan  Ride  we  shouldn't 
have  stopped  here,"  said  the  Honourable;  "and  where 
would  this  meeting  have  been?" 

"That  alters  the  case,"  Sir  Duke  remarked. 

"I  take  back  the  'Amen,' "  said  Shon. 


158  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 


II 

WHATEVER  claims  Shon  had  upon  the  companionship 
of  Sir  Duke  Lawless,  he  knew  there  were  other  claims 
that  were  more  pressing.  After  the  toast  was  finished, 
with  an  emphasised  assumption  of  weariness,  and  a  hint 
of  a  long  yarn  on  the  morrow,  he  picked  up  his  blanket 
and  started  for  the  room  where  all  were  to  sleep.  The 
real  reason  of  this  early  departure  was  clear  to  Pretty 
Pierre  at  once,  and  hi  due  tune  it  dawned  upon  Jo  Gor- 
dineer. 

The  two  Englishmen,  left  alone,  sat  for  a  few  mo- 
ments silent  and  smoking  hard.  Then  the  Honourable 
rose,  got  his  knapsack,  and  took  out  a  small  number  of 
papers,  which  he  handed  to  Sir  Duke,  saying,  "By  slow 
postal  service  to  Sir  Duke  Lawless.  Residence,  some- 
where on  one  of  five  continents." 

An  envelope  bearing  a  woman's  writing  was  the  first 
thing  that  met  Sir  Duke's  eye.  He  stared,  took  it  out, 
turned  it  over,  looked  curiously  at  the  Honourable  for 
a,  moment,  and  then  began  to  break  the  seal. 

"Wait,  Duke.  Do  not  read  that.  We  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  each  other  first." 

Sir  Duke  laid  the  letter  down.  "You  have  some  ex- 
planation to  make,"  he  said. 

"It  was  so  long  ago;  mightn't  it  be  better  to  go  over 
the  story  again?" 

"Perhaps." 

"Then  it  is  best  you  should  tell  it.  I  am  on  my  de- 
fence, you  know." 

Sir  Duke  leaned  back,  and  a  frown  gathered  on  his 
forehead.  Strikingly  out  of  place  on  his  fresh  face  it 
seemed.  Looking  quickly  from  the  fire  to  the  face  of 


SHON  McGANN'S  TOBOGAN  RIDE      159 

the  Honourable  and  back  again  earnestly,  as  if  the  full 
force  of  what  was  required  came  to  him,  he  said:  "We 
shall  get  the  perspective  better  if  we  put  the  tale  in  the 
third  person.  Duke  Lawless  was  the  heir  to  the  title  and 
estates  of  Trafford  Court.  Next  in  succession  to  him 
was  Just  Trafford,  his  cousin.  Lawless  had  an  income 
sufficient  for  a  man  of  moderate  tastes.  Trafford  had 
not  quite  that,  but  he  had  his  profession  of  the  law.  At 
college  they  had  been  fast  friends,  but  afterwards  had 
drifted  apart,  through  no  cause  save  difference  of  pur- 
suits and  circumstances.  Friends  they  still  were  and 
likely  to  be  so  always.  One  summer,  when  on  a  visit 
to  his  uncle,  Admiral  Sir  Clavel  Lawless,  at  Trafford 
Court,  where  a  party  of  people  had  been  invited  for  a 
month,  Duke  Lawless  fell  in  love  with  Miss  Emily  Dor- 
set. She  did  him  the  honour  to  prefer  him  to  any  other 
man — at  least,  he  thought  so.  Her  income,  however, 
was  limited  like  his  own.  The  engagement  was  not  an- 
nounced, for  Lawless  wished  to  make  a  home  before 
he  took  a  wife.  He  inclined  to  ranching  in  Canada,  or  a 
planter's  life  in  Queensland.  The  eight  or  ten  thousand 
pounds  necessary  was  not,  however,  easy  to  get  for  the 
start,  and  he  hadn't  the  least  notion  of  discounting  the 
future,  by  asking  the  admiral's  help.  Besides,  he  knew 
his  uncle  did  not  wish  him  to  marry  unless  he  married 
a  woman  plus  a  fortune.  While  things  were  in  this  un- 
certain state,  Just  Trafford  arrived  on  a  visit  to  Traf- 
ford Court.  The  meeting  of  the  old  friends  was  cordial. 
Immediately  on  Trafford's  arrival,  however,  the  cur- 
rent of  events  changed.  Things  occurred  which  brought 
disaster.  It  was  noticeable  that  Miss  Emily  Dorset 
began  to  see  a  deal  more  of  Admiral  Lawless  and  Just 
Trafford,  and  a  deal  less  of  the  younger  Lawless.  One 
day  Duke  Lawless  came  back  to  the  house  unexpectedly, 


160  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

his  horse  having  knocked  up  on  the  road.  On  entering 
the  library  he  saw  what  turned  the  course  of  his  life." 

Sir  Duke  here  paused,  sighed,  shook  the  ashes  out  of 
his  pipe  with  a  grave  and  expressive  anxiety  which  did 
not  properly  belong  to  the  action,  and  remained  for  a 
moment,  both  arms  on  his  knees,  silent,  and  looking  at 
the  fire.  Then  he  continued: 

"Just  Trafford  sat  beside  Emily  Dorset  hi  an  atti- 
tude of — say,  affectionate  consideration.  She  had  been 
weeping,  and  her  whole  manner  suggested  very  touch- 
ing confidences.  They  both  rose  on  the  entrance  of 
Lawless;  but  neither  tried  to  say  a  word.  What  could 
they  say?  Lawless  apologised,  took  a  book  from  the 
table  which  he  had  not  come  for,  and  left." 

Again  Sir  Duke  paused. 

"The  book  was  an  illustrated  Mitch  Ado  About  Noth- 
ing," said  the  Honourable. 

"A  few  hours  after,  Lawless  had  an  interview  with 
Emily  Dorset.  He  demanded,  with  a  good  deal  of  feel- 
ing, perhaps, — for  he  was  romantic  enough  to  love  the 
girl, — an  explanation.  He  would  have  asked  it  of 
Trafford  first  if  he  had  seen  him.  She  said  Lawless 
should  trust  her;  that  she  had  no  explanation  at  that 
moment  to  give.  If  he  waited — but  Lawless  asked  her 
if  she  cared  for  him  at  all,  if  she  wished  or  intended  to 
marry  him?  She  replied  lightly,  'Perhaps,  when  you 
become  Sir  Duke  Lawless.'  Then  Lawless  accused  her 
of  heartlessness,  and  of  encouraging  both  his  uncle  and 
Just  Trafford.  She  amusingly  said,  'Perhaps  she  had, 
but  it  really  didn't  matter,  did  it? '  For  reply,  Lawless 
said  her  interest  in  the  whole  family  seemed  active  and 
impartial.  He  bade  her  not  vex  herself  at  all  about  him, 
and  not  to  wait  until  he  became  Sir  Duke  Lawless,  but 
to  give  preference  to  seniority  and  begin  with  the  title 


SHON  McGANN'S  TOBOGAN  RIDE      161 

at  once;  which  he  has  reason  since  to  believe  that  she 
did.  What  he  said  to  her  he  has  been  sorry  for,  not  be- 
cause he  thinks  it  was  undeserved,  but  because  he  has 
never  been  able  since  to  rouse  himself  to  anger  on  the 
subject,  nor  to  hate  the  girl  and  Just  Trafford  as  he 
ought.  Of  the  dead  he  is  silent  altogether.  He  never 
sought  an  explanation  from  Just  Trafford,  for  he  left 
that  night  for  London,  and  in  two  days  was  on  his  way 
to  Australia.  The  day  he  left,  however,  he  received  a 
note  from  his  banker  saying  that  £8000  had  been  placed 
to  his  credit  by  Admiral  Lawless.  Feeling  the  indignity 
of  what  he  believed  was  the  cause  of  the  gift,  Lawless 
neither  acknowledged  it  nor  used  it,  not  any  penny  of  it. 
Five  years  have  gone  since  then,  and  Lawless  has  wan- 
dered over  two  continents,  a  self-created  exile.  He  has 
learned  much  that  he  didn't  learn  at  Oxford;  and  not 
the  least  of  all,  that  the  world  is  not  so  bad  as  is  claimed 
for  it,  that  it  isn't  worth  while  hating  and  cherishing 
hate,  that  evil  is  half-accidental,  half-natural,  and  that 
hard  work  in  the  face  of  nature  is  the  thing  to  pull  a  man 
together  and  strengthen  him  for  his  place  in  the  uni- 
verse. Having  burned  his  ships  behind  him,  that  is  the 
way  Lawless  feels.  And  the  story  is  told." 

Just  Trafford  sat  looking  musingly  but  imperturb- 
ably  at  Sir  Duke  for  a  minute;  then  he  said: 

"That  is  your  interpretation  of  the  story,  but  not 
the  story.  Let  us  turn  the  medal  over  now.  And,  first, 
let  Trafford  say  that  he  has  the  permission  of  Emily 
Dorset—" 

Sir  Duke  interrupted:  "Of  her  who  was  Emily 
Dorset, " 

"Of  Miss  Emily  Dorset,  to  tell  what  she  did  not  tell 
that  day  five  years  ago.  After  this  other  reading  of  the 
tale  has  been  rendered,  her  letter  and  those  documents 


162  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

are  there  for  fuller  testimony.  Just  Trafford's  part  in 
the  drama  begins,  of  course,  with  the  library  scene. 
Now  Duke  Lawless  had  never  known  Trafford's  half- 
brother,  Hall  Vincent.  Hall  was  born  in  India,  and  had 
lived  there  most  of  his  life.  He  was  in  the  Indian  Police, 
and  had  married  a  clever,  beautiful,  but  impossible 
kind  of  girl,  against  the  wishes  of  her  parents.  The  mar- 
riage was  not  a  very  happy  one.  This  was  partly  owing 
to  the  quick  Lawless  and  Trafford  blood,  partly  to  the 
wife's  wilfulness.  Hall  thought  that  things  might  go 
better  if  he  came  to  England  to  live.  On  then*  way  from 
Madras  to  Colombo  he  had  some  words  with  his  wife 
one  day  about  the  way  she  arranged  her  hah*,  but  noth- 
ing serious.  This  was  shortly  after  tiffin.  That  even- 
ing they  entered  the  harbour  at  Colombo ;  and  Hall  going 
to  his  cabin  to  seek  his  wife,  could  not  find  her;  but  in 
her  stead  was  her  hah*,  arranged  carefully  in  flowing 
waves  on  the  pillow,  where  through  the  voyage  her  head 
had  lain.  That  she  had  cut  it  off  and  laid  it  there  was 
plain;  but  she  could  not  be  found,  nor  was  she  ever 
found.  The  large  porthole  was  open;  this  was  the  only 
clue.  But  we  need  not  go  further  into  that.  Hall  Vin- 
cent came  home  to  England.  He  told  his  brother  the 
story  as  it  has  been  told  to  you,  and  then  left  for  South 
America,  a  broken-spirited  man.  The  wife's  family 
came  on  to  England  also.  They  did  not  meet  Hall  Vin- 
cent; but  one  day  Just  Trafford  met  at  a  country  seat 
in  Devon,  for  the  first  time,  the  wife's  sister.  She  had 
not  known  of  the  relationship  between  Hall  Vincent  and 
the  Traffords;  and  on  a  memorable  afternoon  he  told 
her  the  full  story  of  the  married  life  and  the  final  dis- 
aster, as  Hall  had  told  it  to  him." 

Sir  Duke  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"You  mean,  Just,  that — " 


SHON  McGANN'S  TOBOGAN  RIDE      163 

"I  mean  that  Emily  Dorset  was  the  sister  of  Hall 
Vincent's  wife." 

Sir  Duke's  brown  fingers  clasped  and  unclasped  ner- 
vously. He  was  about  to  speak,  but  the  Honourable 
said:  "That  is  only  hah"  the  story — wait. 

"Emily  Dorset  would  have  told  Lawless  all  in  due 
tune,  but  women  don't  like  to  be  bullied  ever  so  little, 
and  that,  and  the  unhappiness  of  the  thing,  kept  her 
silent  in  her  short  interview  with  Lawless.  She  could 
not  have  guessed  that  Lawless  would  go  as  he  did.  Now, 
the  secret  of  her  diplomacy  with  the  uncle — diplomacy 
is  the  best  word  to  use — was  Duke  Lawless's  advance- 
ment. She  knew  how  he  had  set  his  heart  on  the  ranch- 
ing or  planting  life.  She  would  have  married  him  with- 
out a  penny,  but  she  felt  his  pride  in  that  particular,  and 
respected  it.  So,  like  a  clever  girl,  she  determined  to 
make  the  old  chap  give  Lawless  a  cheque  on  his  possible 
future.  Perhaps,  as  things  progressed,  the  same  old 
chap  got  an  absurd  notion  in  his  head  about  marrying 
her  to  Just  Trafford,  but  that  was  meanwhile  all  the 
better  for  Lawless.  The  very  day  that  Emily  Dorset 
and  Just  Trafford  succeeded  in  melting  Admiral  Law- 
less's  heart  to  the  tune  of  eight  thousand,  was  the  day 
that  Duke  Lawless  doubted  his  friend  and  challenged 
the  loyalty  of  the  girl  he  loved." 

Sir  Duke's  eyes  filled.  "Great  Heaven!  Just — "  he 
said. 

"Be  quiet  for  a  little.  You  see  she  had  taken  Trafford 
into  her  scheme  against  his  will,  for  he  was  never  good 
at  mysteries  and  theatricals,  and  he  saw  the  danger. 
But  the  cause  was  a  good  one,  and  he  joined  the  sweet 
conspiracy,  with  what  result  these  five  years  bear  wit- 
ness. Admiral  Lawless  has  been  dead  a  year  and  a  half, 
his  wife  a  year.  For  he  married  out  of  anger  with  Duke 


164  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

Lawless;  but  he  did  not  marry  Emily  Dorset,  nor  did 
he  beget  a  child." 

"In  Australia  I  saw  a  paragraph  speaking  of  a  visit 
made  by  him  and  Lady  Lawless  to  a  hospital,  and  I 
thought—" 

"You  thought  he  had  married  Emily  Dorset,  and — 
well,  you  had  better  read  that  letter  now." 

Sir  Duke's  face  was  flushing  with  remorse  and  pain. 
He  drew  his  hand  quickly  across  his  eyes.  "And 
you've  given  up  London,  your  profession,  everything, 
just  to  hunt  for  me,  to  tell  me  this — you  who  would 
have  profited  by  my  eternal  absence!  What  a  beast 
and  ass  I've  been!" 

"Not  at  all;  only  a  bit  poetical  and  hasty,  which  is 
not  unnatural  in  the  Lawless  blood.  I  should  have  been 
wild  myself,  maybe,  if  I  had  been  in  your  position;  only 
I  shouldn't  have  left  England,  and  I  should  have  taken 
the  papers  regularly  and  have  asked  the  other  fellow  to 
explain.  The  other  fellow  didn't  like  the  little  conspir- 
acy. Women,  however,  seem  to  find  that  kind  of  thing 
a  moral  necessity.  By  the  way,  I  wish  when  you  go  back 
you'd  send  me  out  my  hunting  traps.  I've  made  up  my 
mind  to — oh,  quite  so — read  the  letter — I  forgot!" 

Sir  Duke  opened  the  letter  and  read  it,  putting  it 
away  from  him  now  and  then  as  if  it  hurt  him,  and 
taking  it  up  a  moment  after  to  continue  the  reading. 
The  Honourable  watched  him. 

At  last  Sir  Duke  rose. 

"Just—" 

"Yes?    Goon." 

"Do  you  think  she  would  have  me  now?" 

"Don't  know.  Your  outfit  is  not  so  beautiful  as  it 
used  to  be." 

"Don't  chaff  me." 


SHON  McGANN'S  TOBOGAN  RIDE      165 

"Don't  be  so  funereal,  then." 

Under  the  Honourable's  matter  of  fact  air  Sir  Duke's 
face  began  to  clear.  "Tell  me,  do  you  think  she  still 
cares  for  me?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  She's  rich  now — got  the  grand- 
mother's stocking.  Then  there's  Pedley,  of  the  Scots 
Guards;  he  has  been  doing  loyal  service  for  a  couple  of 
years.  What  does  the  letter  say?  " 

"It  only  tells  the  truth,  as  you  have  told  it  to  me, 
but  from  her  standpoint;  not  a  word  that  says  anything 
but  beautiful  reproach  and  general  kindness.  That  is 
all." 

"Quite  so.  You  see  it  was  all  four  years  ago,  and 
Pedley—" 

But  the  Honourable  paused.  He  had  punished  his 
friend  enough.  He  stepped  forward  and  laid  his  hand 
on  Sir  Duke's  shoulder.  "Duke,  you  want  to  pick  up 
the  threads  where  they  were  dropped.  You  dropped 
them.  Ask  me  nothing  about  the  ends  that  Emily 
Dorset  held.  I  conspire  no  more.  But  go  you  and  learn 
your  fate.  If  one  remembers,  why  should  the  other 
forget?" 

Sir  Duke's  light  heart  and  eager  faith  came  back 
with  a  rush.  "  I'll  start  for  England  at  once.  I'll  know 
the  worst  or  the  best  of  it  before  three  months  are  out." 

The  Honourable's  slow  placidity  turned. 

"Three  months. — Yes,  you  may  do  it  in  that  time. 
Better  go  from  Victoria  to  San  Francisco  and  then  over- 
land. You'll  not  forget  about  my  hunting  traps,  and— 
oh,  certainly,  Gordineer;  come  in." 

"Say,"  said  Gordineer.  "I  don't  want  to  disturb 
the  meeting,  but  Shon's  in  chancery  somehow;  breath- 
ing like  a  white  pine,  and  thrashing  about!  He's  red- 
hot  with  fever." 


166  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

Before  he  had  time  to  say  more,  Sir  Duke  seized  the 
candle  and  entered  the  room.  Shon  was  moving  un- 
easily and  suppressing  the  groans  that  shook  him. 

"Shon,  old  friend,  what  is  it?" 

"It's  the  pain  here,  Lawless,"  laying  his  hand  on  his 
chest. 

After  a  moment  Sir  Duke  said,  "Pneumonia!" 

From  that  instant  thoughts  of  himself  were  sunk  in 
the  care  and  thought  of  the  man  who  in  the  heart  of 
Queensland  had  been  mate  and  friend  and  brother  to 
him.  He  did  not  start  for  England  the  next  day,  nor 
for  many  a  day. 

Pretty  Pierre  and  Jo  Gordineer  and  his  party  carried 
Sir  Duke's  letters  over  into  the  Pipi  Valley,  from  where 
they  could  be  sent  on  to  the  coast.  Pierre  came  back  in 
a  few  days  to  see  how  Shon  was,  and  expressed  his  de- 
termination of  staying  to  help  Sir  Duke,  if  need  be. 

Shon  hovered  between  life  and  death.  It  was  not 
alone  the  pneumonia  that  racked  his  system  so;  there 
was  also  the  shock  he  had  received  in  his  flight  down  the 
glacier.  In  his  delirium  he  seemed  to  be  always  with 
Lawless: 

"'For  it's  down  the  long  side  of  Farcalladen  Rise* 
— It's  share  and  share  even,  Lawless,  and  ye'll  ate  the 
rest  of  it,  or  I'll  lave  ye — Did  ye  say  ye'd  found  water 
— Lawless — water! — Sure  you're  drinkin'  none  your- 
self— I'll  sing  it  again  for  you  then — 'And  it's  back  with 
the  ring  of  the  chain  and  the  spur' — 'But  burn  all  your 
ships  behind  you' — 'I'll  never  go  back  to  Farcalladen 
more!'" 

Sir  Duke's  fingers  had  a  trick  of  kindness,  a  sugges- 
tion of  comfort,  a  sense  of  healing,  that  made  his  simple 
remedies  do  more  than  natural  duty.  He  was  doctor, 
nurse, — sleepless  nurse, — and  careful  apothecary.  And 


SHON  McGANN'S  TOBOGAN  RIDE     167 

when  at  last  the  danger  was  past  and  he  could  relax 
watching,  he  would  not  go,  and  he  did  not  go,  till  they 
could  all  travel  to  the  Pipi  Valley. 

In  the  blue  shadows  of  the  firs  they  stand  as  we  take 
our  leave  of  one  of  them.  The  Honourable  and  Sir 
Duke  have  had  their  last  words,  and  Sir  Duke  has  said 
he  will  remember  about  the  hunting  traps.  They  under- 
stand each  other.  There  is  sunshine  in  the  face  of  all — 
a  kind  of  Indian  summer  sunshine,  infused  with  the  sad- 
ness of  a  coming  winter;  and  theirs  is  the  winter  of  part- 
ing. Yet  it  is  all  done  quietly. 

"We'll  meet  again,  Shon,"  said  Sir  Duke,  "and  you'll 
remember  your  promise  to  write  to  me." 

"I'll  keep  my  promise,  and  I  hope  the  news  that'll 
please  you  best  is  what  you'll  send  us  first  from  England. 
And  if  you  should  go  to  ould  Donegal — I've  no  words 
for  me  thoughts  at  all!" 

"I  know  them.  Don't  try  to  say  them.  We've  not 
had  the  luck  together,  all  kinds  and  all  weathers,  for 
nothing." 

Sir  Duke's  eyes  smiled  a  good-bye  into  the  smiling 
eyes  of  Shon.  They  were  much  alike,  these  two,  whose 
stations  were  so  far  apart.  Yet  somewhere,  in  genera- 
tions gone,  their  ancestors  may  have  toiled,  feasted,  or 
governed,  in  the  same  social  hemisphere;  and  here  in  the 
mountains  life  was  levelled  to  one  degree  again. 

Sir  Duke  looked  round.  The  pines  were  crowding 
up  elate  and  warm  towards  the  peaks  of  the  white 
silence.  The  river  was  brawling  over  a  broken  pathway 
of  boulders  at  their  feet;  round  the  edge  of  a  mighty 
mountain  crept  a  mule  train;  a  far-off  glacier  glistened 
harshly  in  the  lucid  morning,  yet  not  harshly  either,  but 
with  the  rugged  form  of  a  vast  antiquity,  from  which 
these  scarred  and  grimly  austere  hills  had  grown.  Here 


168  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

Nature  was  filled  with  a  sense  of  triumphant  mastery — 
the  mastery  of  ageless  experience.  And  down  the  great 
piles  there  blew  a  wind  of  stirring  life,  of  the  composure 
of  great  strength,  and  touched  the  four,  and  the  man 
that  mounted  now  was  turned  to  go.  A  quick  good-bye 
from  him  to  all;  a  God-speed-you  from  the  Honour- 
able; a  wave  of  the  hand  between  the  rider  and  Shon, 
and  Sir  Duke  Lawless  was  gone. 

"You  had  better  cook  the  last  of  that  bear  this 
morning,  Pierre,"  said  the  Honourable.  And  their  life 
went  on. 


It  was  eight  months  after  that,  sitting  in  their  hut 
after  a  day's  successful  mining,  the  Honourable  handed 
Shon  a  newspaper  to  read.  A  paragraph  was  marked. 
It  concerned  the  marriage  of  Miss  Emily  Dorset  and 
Sir  Duke  Lawless. 

And  while  Shon  read,  the  Honourable  called  into 
the  tent: — "Have  you  any  lemons  for  the  whisky, 
Pierre?" 

A  satisfactory  reply  being  returned,  the  Honourable 
proceeded:  "We'll  begin  with  the  bottle  of  Pommery, 
which  I've  been  saving  months  for  this." 

The  royal-flush  toast  of  the  evening  belonged  to 
Shon. 

"  God  bless  him !  To  the  day  when  we  see  him  again ! " 

And  all  of  them  saw  that  day. 


PERE  CHAMPAGNE 

"Is  it  that  we  stand  at  the  top  of  the  hill  and  the  end 
of  the  travel  has  come,  Pierre?  Why  don't  you  spake?  " 

"We  stand  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  it  is  the  end." 

"And  Lonely  Valley  is  at  our  feet  and  Whiteface 
Mountain  beyond?" 

"One  at  our  feet,  and  the  other  beyond,  Shon  Mc- 
Gann." 

"It's  the  sight  of  my  eyes  I  wish  I  had  in  the  light  of 
the  sun  this  mornin'.  Tell  me,  what  is't  you  see?" 

"I  see  the  trees  on  the  foot-hills,  and  all  the  branches 
shine  with  frost.  There  is  a  path — so  wide! — between 
two  groves  of  pines.  On  Whiteface  Mountain  lies  a 
glacier-field  .  .  .  and  all  is  still."  .  .  . 

"The  voice  of  you  is  far-away-like,  Pierre — it  shivers 
as  a  hawk  cries.  It's  the  wind,  the  wind,  maybe." 

"There's  not  a  breath  of  life  from  hill  or  valley." 

"But  I  feel  it  in  my  face." 

"It  is  not  the  breath  of  life  you  feel." 

"Did  you  not  hear  voices  coming  athwart  the  wind? 
.  .  .  Can  you  see  the  people  at  the  mines?" 

"I  have  told  you  what  I  see." 

"You  told  me  of  the  pine-trees,  and  the  glacier,  and 
the  snow — " 

"And  that  is  all." 

"But  in  the  Valley,  in  the  Valley,  where  all  the  miners 
are?" 

"I  cannot  see  them." 

"For  love  of  heaven,  don't  tell  me  that  the  dark  is 
fallin'  on  your  eyes  too." 

171 


172  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"No,  Shon,  I  am  not  growing  blind." 

"Will  you  not  tell  me  what  gives  the  ache  to  your 
words?  " 

"I  see  in  the  Valley — snow  .  .  .  snow." 

"It's  a  laugh  you  have  at  me  in  your  cheek,  whin 
I'd  give  years  of  my  ill-spent  life  to  watch  the  chimney 
smoke  come  curlin'  up  slow  through  the  sharp  air  in- 
the  Valley  there  below." 

"There  is  no  chimney  and  there  is  no  smoke  in  all 
the  Valley." 

"Before  God,  if  you're  a  man,  you'll  put  your  hand 
on  my  arm  and  tell  me  what  trouble  quakes  your 
speech." 

"Shon  McGann,  it  is  for  you  to  make  the  sign  of  the 
Cross  .  .  .  there,  while  I  put  my  hand  on  your  shoulder 
—so!" 

"Your  hand  is  heavy,  Pierre." 

"This  is  the  sight  of  the  eyes  that  see.  In  the  Valley 
there  is  snow;  in  the  snow  of  all  that  was,  there  is  one 
poppet-head  of  the  mine  that  was  called  St.  Gabriel- 
.  .  .  upon  the  poppet-head  there  is  the  figure  of  a 


woman." 


"Ah!" 

"She  does  not  move — ! 

"She  will  never  move?" 

"She  will  never  move." 

"The  breath  o'  my  body  hurts  me.  .  .  .  There  is- 
death  in  the  Valley,  Pierre?" 

"There  is  death." 

"It  was  an  avalanche — that  path  between  the  pines?" 

"And  a  great  storm  after." 

"Blessed  be  God  that  I  cannot  behold  that  thing; 
this  day!  .  .  .  And  the  woman,  Pierre,  the  woman 
aloft?" 


PERE  CHAMPAGNE  173 

"She  went  to  watch  for  someone  coming,  and  as  she 
watched,  the  avalanche  came — and  she  moves  not." 

"Do  we  know  that  woman?" 

"Who  can  tell?" 

"What  was  it  you  whispered  soft  to  yourself,  then, 
Pierre?" 

"I  whispered  no  word." 

"There,  don't  you  hear  it,  soft  and  sighin'?  .  .  . 
Nathalie!" 

"Mon  Dieu!    It  is  not  of  the  world." 

"It's  facin'  the  poppet-head  where  she  stands  I'd 
be." 

"Your  face  is  turned  towards  her." 

"Where  is  the  sun?" 

"The  sun  stands  still  above  her  head." 

"With  the  bitter  over,  and  the  avil  past,  come  rest 
for  her  and  all  that  lie  there." 

"Eh,  bien,  the  game  is  done!" 

"If  we  stay  here  we  shall  die  also." 

"If  we  go  we  die,  perhaps."  .  .  . 

"Don't  spake  it.  We  will  go,  and  we  will  return  when 
the  breath  of  summer  comes  from  the  South." 

"It  shall  be  so." 

"Hush!    Did  you  not  hear—?" 

"I  did  not  hear.  I  only  see  an  eagle,  and  it  flies  to- 
wards Whiteface  Mountain." 

And  Shon  McGann  and  Pretty  Pierre  turned  back 
from  the  end  of  their  quest — from  a  mighty  grave  be- 
hind to  a  lonely  waste  before;  and  though  one  was 
snow-blind,  and  the  other  knew  that  on  him  fell  the 
chiefer  weight  of  a  great  misfortune,  for  he  must  pro- 
vide food  and  fire  and  be  as  a  mother  to  his  comrade — 
they  had  courage;  without  which,  men  are  as  the  stand- 
ing straw  in  an  unreaped  field  hi  winter;  but  having 


174  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

become  like  the  hooded  pine,  that  keepeth  green  in  frost, 
and  hath  the  bounding  blood  in  all  its  icy  branches. 

And  whence  they  came  and  wherefore  was  as  thus : — • 

A  French  Canadian  once  lived  in  Lonely  Valley. 
One  day  great  fortune  came  to  him,  because  it  was 
given  him  to  discover  the  mine  St.  Gabriel.  And  he 
said  to  the  woman  who  loved  him,  "I  will  go  with 
mules  and  much  gold,  that  I  have  hewn  and  washed  and 
gathered,  to  a  village  in  the  East  where  my  father  and 
my  mother  are.  They  are  poor,  but  I  will  make  them 
rich;  and  then  I  will  return  to  Lonely  Valley,  and  a 
priest  shall  come  with  me,  and  we  will  dwell  here  at 
Whiteface  Mountain,  where  men  are  men  and  not 
children."  And  the  woman  blessed  him,  and  prayed 
for  him,  and  let  him  go. 

He  travelled  far  through  passes  of  the  mountains,  and 
came  at  last  where  new  cities  lay  upon  the  plains,  and 
where  men  were  full  of  evil  and  of  lust  of  gold.  And  he 
was  free  of  hand  and  light  of  heart;  and  at  a  place  called 
Diamond  City  false  friends  came  about  him,  and  gave 
him  champagne  wine  to  drink,  and  struck  him  down  and 
robbed  him,  leaving  him  for  dead. 

And  he  was  found,  and  his  wounds  were  all  healed: 
all  save  one,  and  that  was  in  the  brain.  Men  called 
him  mad. 

He  wandered  through  the  land,  preaching  to  men  to 
drink  no  wine,  and  to  shun  the  sight  of  gold.  And  they 
laughed  at  him,  and  called  him  Pere  Champagne. 

But  one  day  much  gold  was  found  at  a  place  called 
Reef  o'  Angel;  and  jointly  with  the  gold  came  a  plague 
which  scars  the  face  and  rots  the  body;  and  Indians 
died  by  hundreds  and  white  men  by  scores;  and  Pere 
Champagne,  of  all  who  were  not  stricken  down,  feared 
nothing,  and  did  not  flee,  but  went  among  the  sick  and 


PERE  CHAMPAGNE  175 

dying,  and  did  those  deeds  which  gold  cannot  buy,  and 
prayed  those  prayers  which  were  never  sold.  And  who 
can  count  how  high  the  prayers  of  the  feckless  go ! 

When  none  was  found  to  bury  the  dead,  he  gave  them 
place  himself  beneath  the  prairie  earth, — consecrated 
only  by  the  tears  of  a  fool, — and  for  extreme  unction 
he  had  but  this:  "God  be  merciful  to  me,  a  sinner!" 

Now  it  happily  chanced  that  Pierre  and  Shon  Mc- 
Gann,  who  travelled  westward,  came  upon  this  desper- 
ate battle-field,  and  saw  how  Pere  Champagne  dared  the 
elements  of  scourge  and  death;  and  they  paused  and 
laboured  with  him — to  save  where  saving  was  granted 
of  Heaven,  and  to  bury  when  the  Reaper  reaped  and 
would  not  stay  his  hand.  At  last  the  plague  ceased,  be- 
cause winter  stretched  its  wings  out  swiftly  o'er  the 
plains  from  frigid  ranges  in  the  West.  And  then  Pere 
Champagne  fell  ill  again. 

And  this  last  great  sickness  cured  his  madness:  and 
he  remembered  whence  he  had  come,  and  what  befell 
him  at  Diamond  City  so  many  moons  ago.  And  he 
prayed  them,  when  he  knew  his  time  was  come,  that 
they  would  go  to  Lonely  Valley  and  tell  his  story  to  the 
woman  whom  he  loved;  and  say  that  he  was  going  to 
a  strange  but  pleasant  Land,  and  that  there  he  would 
await  her  coming.  He  begged  them  that  they  would 
go  at  once,  that  she  might  know,  and  not  strain  her  eyes 
to  blindness,  and  be  sick  at  heart  because  he  came  not. 
And  he  told  them  her  name,  and  drew  the  coverlet  up 
about  his  head  and  seemed  to  sleep;  but  he  waked  be- 
tween the  day  and  dark,  and  gently  cried:  "The  snow 
is  heavy  on  the  mountain  .  .  .  and  the  Valley  is  below 
.  .  .  Gardez,  man  Pere!  .  .  .  Ah,  Nathalie!"  And 
they  buried  him  between  the  dark  and  dawn. 

Though  winds  were  fierce,  and  travel  full  of  peril, 


176  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

they  kept  their  word,  and  passed  along  wide  steppes 
of  snow,  until  they  entered  passes  of  the  mountains, 
and  again  into  the  plains;  and  at  last  one  poudre  day, 
when  frost  was  shaking  like  shreds  of  faintest  silver 
through  the  ah*,  Shon  McGann's  sight  fled.  But  he 
would  not  turn  back — a  promise  to  a  dying  man  was 
sacred,  and  he  could  follow  if  he  could  not  lead;  and 
there  was  still  some  pemmican,  and  there  were  martens 
in  the  woods,  and  wandering  deer  that  good  spirits 
hunted  into  the  way  of  the  needy;  and  Pierre's  finger 
along  the  gun  was  sure. 

Pierre  did  not  tell  Shon  that  for  many  days  they 
travelled  woods  where  no  sunshine  entered;  where  no 
trail  had  ever  been,  nor  foot  of  man  had  trod:  that  they 
had  lost  their  way.  Nor  did  he  make  his  comrade  know 
that  one  night  he  sat  and  played  a  game  of  solitaire 
to  see  if  they  would  ever  reach  the  place  called  Lonely 
Valley.  Before  the  cards  were  dealt,  he  made  a  sign 
upon  his  breast  and  forehead.  Three  times  he  played, 
and  three  times  he  counted  victory;  and  before  three 
suns  had  come  and  gone,  they  climbed  a  hill  that  perched 
over  Lonely  Valley.  And  of  what  they  saw  and  their 
hearts  felt  we  know. 

And  when  they  turned  their  faces  eastward  they 
were  as  men  who  go  to  meet  a  final  and  a  conquering 
enemy;  but  they  had  kept  their  honour  with  the  man 
upon  whose  grave-tree  Shon  McGann  had  carved  be- 
neath his  name  these  words: 

"A  Brother  of  Aaron." 

Upon  a  lonely  trail  they  wandered,  the  spirits  of  lost 
travellers  hungering  in  their  wake — spirits  that  mum- 
bled in  cedar  thickets,  and  whimpered  down  the  flumes 
of  snow.  And  Pierre,  who  knew  that  evil  things  are 


PERE  CHAMPAGNE  177 

exorcised  by  mighty  conjuring,  sang  loudly,  from  a 
throat  made  thin  by  forced  fasting,  a  song  with  which 
his  mother  sought  to  drive  away  the  devils  of  dreams 
that  flaunted  on  his  pillow  when  a  child:  it  was  the 
song  of  the  Scarlet  Hunter.  And  the  charm  sufficed; 
for  suddenly  of  a  cheerless  morning  they  came  upon  a 
trapper's  hut  in  the  wilderness,  where  their  sufferings 
ceased,  and  the  sight  of  Shon's  eyes  came  back.  When 
strength  returned  also,  they  journeyed  to  an  Indian 
village,  where  a  priest  laboured.  Him  they  besought; 
and  when  spring  came  they  set  forth  to  Lonely  Valley 
again  that  the  woman  and  the  smothered  dead — if  it 
might  chance  so — should  be  put  away  into  peaceful 
graves.  But  thither  coming  they  only  saw  a  grey  and 
churlish  river;  and  the  poppet-head  of  the  mine  of  St. 
Gabriel,  and  she  who  had  knelt  thereon,  were  vanished 
into  solitudes,  where  only  God's  cohorts  have  the  rights 
of  burial.  .  .  . 

But  the  priest  prayed  humbly  for  their  so  swiftly- 
summoned  souls. 


THE  SCAELET  HUNTER 


THE  SCARLET  HUNTER 

"NEWS  out  of  Egypt!"  said  the  Honourable  Just 
Trafford.  "If  this  is  true,  it  gives  a  pretty  finish  to  the 
season.  You  think  it  possible,  Pierre?  It  is  every 
man's  talk  that  there  isn't  a  herd  of  buffaloes  in  the 
whole  country;  but  this — eh?" 

Pierre  did  not  seem  disposed  to  answer.  He  had 
been  watching  a  man's  face  for  some  time;  but  his  eyes 
were  now  idly  following  the  smoke  of  his  cigarette  as 
it  floated  away  to  the  ceiling  in  fading  circles.  He 
seemed  to  take  no  interest  in  Trafford's  remarks,  nor 
in  the  tale  that  Shangi  the  Indian  had  told  them; 
though  Shangi  and  his  tale  were  both  sufficiently  un- 
common to  justify  attention. 

Shon  McGann  was  more  impressionable.  His  eyes 
swam;  his  feet  shifted  nervously  with  enjoyment;  he 
glanced  frequently  at  his  gun  in  the  corner  of  the  hut; 
he  had  watched  Trafford's  face  with  some  anxiety,  and 
accepted  the  result  of  the  tale  with  delight.  Now  his 
look  was  occupied  with  Pierre. 

Pierre  was  a  pretty  good  authority  in  all  matters  con- 
cerning the  prairies  and  the  North.  He  also  had  an 
instinct  for  detecting  veracity,  having  practised  on  both 
sides  of  the  equation.  Trafford  became  impatient,  and 
at  last  the  half-breed,  conscious  that  he  had  tried  the 
temper  of  his  chief  so  far  as  was  safe,  lifted  his  eyes, 
and,  resting  them  casually  on  the  Indian,  replied:  "Yes, 
I  know  the  place.  .  .  .  No,  I  have  not  been  there,  but 
I  was  told — ah,  it  was  long  ago!  There  is  a  great  valley 

181 


182  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

between  hills,  the  Kimash  Hills,  the  hills  of  the  Mighty 
Men.  The  woods  are  deep  and  dark;  there  is  but  one 
trail  through  them,  and  it  is  old.  On  the  highest  hill 
is  a  vast  mound.  In  that  mound  are  the  forefathers  of 
a  nation  that  is  gone.  Yes,  as  you  say,  they  are  dead, 
and  there  is  none  of  them  alive  in  the  valley — which 
is  called  the  White  Valley — where  the  buffalo  are.  The 
valley  is  green  in  summer,  and  the  snow  is  not  deep  in 
winter;  the  noses  of  the  buffalo  can  find  the  tender 
grass.  The  Injin  speaks  the  truth,  perhaps.  But  of  the 
number  of  buffaloes,  one  must  see.  The  eye  of  the  red 
man  multiplies." 

Trafford  looked  at  Pierre  closely.  "You  seem  to 
know  the  place  very  well.  It  is  a  long  way  north  where 
— ah  yes,  you  said  you  had  never  been  there;  you  were 
told.  Who  told  you?" 

The  half-breed  raised  his  eyebrows  slightly  as  he 
replied:  "I  can  remember  a  long  time,  and  my  mother, 
she  spoke  much  and  sang  many  songs  at  the  camp- 
fires."  Then  he  puffed  his  cigarette  so  that  the  smoke 
clouded  his  face  for  a  moment,  and  went  on, — "I  think 
there  may  be  buffaloes." 

"It's  along  the  barrel  of  me  gun  I  wish  I  was  lookin' 
'at  thim  now,"  said  McGann. 

" Tiens,  you  will  go?"  inquired  Pierre  of  Trafford. 

"To  have  a  shot  at  the  only  herd  of  wild  buffaloes 
on  the  continent!  Of  course  I'll  go.  I'd  go  to  the 
North  Pole  for  that.  Sport  and  novelty  I  came 
here  to  see;  buffalo-hunting  I  did  not  expect.  I'm  in 
luck,  that's  all.  We'll  start  to-morrow  morning,  if 
we  can  get  ready,  and  Shangi  here  will  lead  us;  eh, 
Pierre?" 

The  half-breed  again  was  not  polite.  Instead  of  re- 
plying he  sang  almost  below  his  breath  the  words  of  a 


THE  SCARLET  HUNTER  183 

song  unfamiliar  to  his  companions,  though  the  Indian's 
eyes  showed  a  flash  of  understanding.  These  were  the 
words : 

"They  ride  away  with  a  waking  wind, — away,  away! 
With  laughing  lip  and  with  jocund  mind  at  break  of  day. 
A  rattle  of  hoofs  and  a  snatch  of  song, — they  ride,  they  ridel 
The  plains  are  wide  and  the  path  is  long, — so  long,  so  wide!" 

Just  Trafford  appeared  ready  to  deal  with  this  inso- 
lence, for  the  half-breed  was  after  all  a  servant  of  his, 
a  paid  retainer.  He  waited,  however.  Shon  saw  the 
difficulty,  and  at  once  volunteered  a  reply.  "It's  aisy 
enough  to  get  away  in  the  mornin',  but  it's  a  question 
how  far  we'll  be  able  to  go  with  the  horses.  The  year  is 
late;  but  there's  dogs  beyand,  I  suppose,  and  bedad, 
there  y'  are!" 

The  Indian  spoke  slowly:  "It  is  far  off.  There  is  no 
colour  yet  in  the  leaf  of  the  larch.  The  river-hen  still 
swims  northward.  It  is  good  that  we  go.  There  is 
much  buffalo  in  the  White  Valley." 

Again  Trafford  looked  towards  his  follower,  and  again 
the  half-breed,  as  if  he  were  making  an  effort  to  remem- 
ber, sang  abstractedly: 

"  They  follow,  they  follow  a  lonely  trail,  by  day,  by  night, 
By  distant  sun,  and  by  fire-fly  pale,  and  northern  light. 
The  ride  to  the  Hills  of  the  Mighty  Men,  so  swift  they  go! 
Where  buffalo  feed  in  the  wilding  glen  in  sun  and  snow." 

"Pierre,"  said  Trafford,  sharply,  "I  want  an  answer 
to  my  question." 

"  Mais,  pardon,  I  was  thinking  .  .  .  well,  we  can 
ride  until  the  deep  snows  come,  then  we  can  walk;  and 
Shangi,  he  can  get  the  dogs,  maybe,  one  team  of  dogs." 

"But,"  was  the  reply,  "one  team  of  dogs  will  not  be 


184  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

enough.  We'll  bring  meat  and  hides,  you  know,  as 
well  as  pemmican.  We  won't  cache  any  carcases  up 
there.  What  would  be  the  use?  We  shall  have  to  be 
back  hi  the  Pipi  Valley  by  the  spring-tune." 

"Well,"  said  the  half-breed  with  a  cold  decision, 
"one  team  of  dogs  will  be  enough;  and  we  will  not 
cache,  and  we  shall  be  back  in  the  Pipi  Valley  before  the 
spring,  perhaps."  But  this  last  word  was  spoken  under 
his  breath. 

And  now  the  Indian  spoke,  with  his  deep  voice  and 
dignified  manner:  "Brothers,  it  is  as  I  have  said, — 
the  trail  is  lonely  and  the  woods  are  deep  and  dark. 
Since  the  tune  when  the  world  was  young,  no  white 
man  hath  been  there  save  one,  and  behold  sickness  fell 
on  him;  the  grave  is  his  end.  It  is  a  pleasant  land,  for 
the  gods  have  blessed  it  to  the  Indian  forever.  No 
heathen  shall  possess  it.  But  you  shall  see  the  White 
Valley  and  the  buffalo.  Shangi  will  lead,  because  you 
have  been  merciful  to  him,  and  have  given  him  to  sleep 
in  your  wigwam,  and  to  eat  of  your  wild  meat.  There 
are  dogs  in  the  forest.  I  have  spoken." 

Trafford  was  impressed,  and  annoyed  too.  He 
thought  too  much  sentiment  was  being  squandered  on 
a  very  practical  and  sportive  thing.  He  disliked  func- 
tions; speech-making  was  to  him  a  matter  for  prayer 
and  fasting.  The  Indian's  address  was  therefore  more 
or  less  gratuitous,  and  he  hastened  to  remark:  "Thank 
you,  Shangi;  that's  very  good,  and  you've  put  it  poet- 
ically. You've  turned  a  shooting-excursion  into  a 
mediaeval  romance.  But  we'll  get  down  to  business  now, 
if  you  please,  and  make  the  romance  a  fact,  beautiful 
enough  to  send  to  the  Times  or  the  New  York  Call. 
Let's  see,  how  would  they  put  it  in  the  Call? — 'Extraor- 
dinary Discovery — Herd  of  buffaloes  found  in  the  far 


THE  SCARLET  HUNTER  185 

North  by  an  Englishman  and  his  Franco-Irish  Party — 
Sport  for  the  gods — Exodus  of  brules  to  White  Valley!' 
— and  so  on,  screeching  to  the  end." 

Shon  laughed  heartily.  "The  fun  of  the  world  is  in 
the  thing,"  he  said;  "and  a  day  it  would  be  for  a  notch 
on  a  stick  and  a  rasp  of  gin  in  the  throat.  And  if  I  get 
the  sight  of  me  eye  on  a  buffalo-ruck,  it's  down  on  me 
knees  I'll  go,  and  not  for  prayin'  aither.  Here's  both 
hands  up  for  a  start  in  the  mornin' ! " 

Long  before  noon  next  day  they  were  well  on  their 
way.  Trafford  could  not  understand  why  Pierre  was 
so  reserved,  and,  when  speaking,  so  ironical.  It  was 
noticeable  that  the  half-breed  watched  the  Indian 
closely,  that  he  always  rode  behind  him,  that  he  never 
drank  out  of  the  same  cup.  The  leader  set  this  down 
to  the  natural  uncertainty  of  Pierre's  disposition.  He 
had  grown  to  like  Pierre,  as  the  latter  had  come  in  course 
to  respect  him.  Each  was  a  man  of  value  after  his  kind. 
Each  also  had  recognised  hi  the  other  qualities  of  force 
and  knowledge  having  then*  generation  in  experiences 
which  had  become  individuality,  subterranean  and 
acute,  under  a  cold  surface.  It  was  the  mutual  recogni- 
tion of  these  equivalents  that  led  the  two  men  to  mutual 
trust,  only  occasionally  disturbed,  as  has  been  shown; 
though  one  was  regarded  as  the  most  fastidious  man  of 
his  set  in  London,  the  fairest-minded  of  friends,  the 
most  comfortable  of  companions;  while  the  other  was 
an  outlaw,  a  half-heathen,  a  lover  of  but  one  thing  hi 
this  world, — the  joyous  god  of  Chance.  Pierre  was  es- 
sentially a  gamester.  He  would  have  extracted  satis- 
faction out  of  a  death-sentence  which  was  contingent 
on  the  trumping  of  an  ace.  His  only  honour  was  the 
honour  of  the  game. 

Now,  with  all  the  swelling  prairie  sloping  to  the  clear 


186  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

horizon,  and  the  breath  of  a  large  life  in  their  nostrils, 
these  two  men  were  caught  up  suddenly,  as  it  were, 
by  the  throbbing  soul  of  the  North,  so  that  the  sub- 
terranean life  in  them  awoke  and  startled  them.  Traf- 
ford  conceived  that  tobacco  was  the  charm  with  which 
to  exorcise  the  spirits  of  the  past.  Pierre  let  the  game 
of  sensations  go  on,  knowing  that  they  pay  themselves 
out  in  tune.  His  scheme  was  the  wiser.  The  other 
found  that  fast  riding  and  smoking  were  not  sufficient. 
He  became  surrounded  by  the  ghosts  of  yesterdays; 
and  at  length  he  gave  up  striving  with  them,  and  let 
them  storm  upon  him,  until  a  line  of  pain  cut  deeply 
across  his  forehead,  and  bitterly  and  unconsciously  he 
cried  aloud, — "Hester,  ah,  Hester!" 

But  having  spoken,  the  spell  was  broken,  and  he  was 
aware  of  the  beat  of  hoofs  beside  him,  and  Shangi  the 
Indian  looking  at  him  with  a  half  smile.  Something 
in  the  look  thrilled  him;  it  was  fantastic,  masterful. 
He  wondered  that  he  had  not  noticed  this  singular  in- 
fluence before.  After  all,  he  was  only  a  savage  with 
cleaner  buckskin  than  his  race  usually  wore.  Yet  that 
glow,  that  power  hi  the  face — was  he  Piegan,  Blackfoot, 
Cree,  Blood?  Whatever  he  was,  this  man  had  heard 
the  words  which  broke  so  painfully  from  him. 

He  saw  the  Indian  frame  her  name  upon  his  lips,  and 
then  came  the  words,  "Hester — Hester  Orval!" 

He  turned  sternly,  and  said,  "Who  are  you?  What 
do  you  know  of  Hester  Orval?" 

The  Indian  shook  his  head  gravely,  and  replied, 
"You  spoke  her  name,  my  brother." 

"I  spoke  one  word  of  her  name.  You  have  spoken 
two." 

"One  does  not  know  what  one  speaks.  There  are 
words  which  are  as  sounds,  and  words  which  are  as 


THE  SCARLET  HUNTER  187 

feelings.  Those  come  to  the  brain  through  the  ear; 
these  to  the  soul  through  sign,  which  is  more  than 
sound.  The  Indian  hath  knowledge,  even  as  the  white 
man;  and  because  his  heart  is  open,  the  trees  whisper 
to  him;  he  reads  the  language  of  the  grass  and  the 
wind,  and  is  taught  by  the  song  of  the  bird,  the  screech 
of  the  hawk,  the  bark  of  the  fox.  And  so  he  comes  to 
know  the  heart  of  the  man  who  hath  sickness,  and  calls 
upon  someone,  even  though  it  be  a  weak  woman,  to 
cure  his  sickness;  who  is  bowed  low  as  beside  a  grave, 
and  would  stand  upright.  Are  not  my  words  wise? 
As  the  thoughts  of  a  child  that  dreams,  as  the  face  of 
the  blind,  the  eye  of  the  beast,  or  the  anxious  hand  of 
the  poor, — are  they  not  simple,  and  to  be  understood?  " 
Just  Trafford  made  no  reply.  But  behind,  Pierre 
was  singing  in  the  plaintive  measure  of  a  chant: 

"A  hunter  rideth  the  herd  abreast, 
The  Scarlet  Hunter  from  out  of  the  West, 
Whose  arrows  with  points  of  flame  are  drest, 
Who  loveth  the  beast  of  the  field  the  best, 
The  child  and  the  young  bird  out  of  the  nest, — 
They  ride  to  the  hunt  no  more, — no  more!" 

They  travelled  beyond  all  bounds  of  civilisation; 
beyond  the  northernmost  Indian  villages,  until  the  fea- 
tures of  the  landscape  became  more  rugged  and  solemn, 
and  at  last  they  paused  at  a  place  which  the  Indian 
called  Misty  Mountain,  and  where,  disappearing  for  an 
hour,  he  returned  with  a  team  of  Eskimo  dogs,  keen, 
quick-tempered,  and  enduring.  They  had  all  now  re- 
covered from  the  disturbing  sentiments  of  the  first  por- 
tion of  the  journey;  life  was  at  full  tide;  the  spirit  of 
the  hunter  was  on  them. 

At  length  one  night  they  camped  in  a  vast  pine  grove 


188  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

wrapped  in  coverlets  of  snow  and  silent  as  death.  Here 
again  Pierre  became  moody  and  alert  and  took  no  part 
in  the  careless  chat  at  the  camp-fire  led  by  Shon 
McGann.  The  man  brooded  and  looked  mysterious. 
Mystery  was  not  pleasing  to  Trafford.  He  had  his  own 
secrets,  but  in  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life  he  preferred 
simplicity.  In  one  of  the  silences  that  fell  between 
Shon's  attempts  to  give  hilarity  to  the  occasion,  there 
came  a  rumbling  far-off  sound,  a  sound  that  increased 
in  volume  till  the  earth  beneath  them  responded  gently 
to  the  vibration.  Trafford  looked  up  inquiringly  at 
Pierre,  and  then  at  the  Indian,  who,  after  a  moment, 
said  slowly:  "Above  us  are  the  hills  of  the  Mighty 
Men,  beneath  us  is  the  White  Valley.  It  is  the  tramp 
of  buffalo  that  we  hear.  A  storm  is  coming,  and  they 
go  to  shelter  in  the  mountains." 

The  information  had  come  somewhat  suddenly,  and 
McGann  was  the  first  to  recover  from  the  pleasant 
shock:  "It's  divil  a  wink  of  sleep  I'll  get  this  night, 
with  the  thought  of  them  below  there  ripe  for  slaughter, 
and  the  tumble  of  fight  in  their  beards." 

Pierre,  with  a  meaning  glance  from  his  half-closed 
eyes,  added:  "But  it  is  the  old  saying  of  the  prairies 
that  you  do  not  shout  dinner  till  you  have  your  knife 
in  the  loaf.  Your  knife  is  not  yet  in  the  loaf,  Shon 
McGann." 

The  boom  of  the  trampling  ceased,  and  now  there 
was  a  stirring  in  the  snow-clad  tree  tops,  and  a  sound 
as  if  all  the  birds  of  the  North  were  flying  overhead. 
The  weather  began  to  moan  and  the  boles  of  the  pines 
to  quake.  And  then  there  came  war, — a  trouble  out 
of  the  north, — a  wave  of  the  breath  of  God  to  show  in- 
consequent man  that  he  who  seeks  to  live  by  slaughter 
hath  slaughter  for  his  master. 


THE  SCARLET  HUNTER  189 

They  hung  over  the  fire  while  the  forest  cracked 
round  them,  and  the  flame  smarted  with  the  flying 
snow.  And  now  the  trees,  as  if  the  elements  were  clos- 
ing in  on  them,  began  to  break  close  by,  and  one  lurched 
forward  towards  them.  Trafford,  to  avoid  its  stroke, 
stepped  quickly  aside  right  into  the  line  of  another 
which  he  did  not  see.  Pierre  sprang  forward  and  swung 
him  clear,  but  was  himself  struck  senseless  by  an  out- 
reaching  branch. 

As  if  satisfied  with  this  achievement,  the  storm  began 
to  subside.  When  Pierre  recovered  consciousness  Traf- 
ford clasped  his  hand  and  said, — "You've  a  sharp  eye, 
a  quick  thought,  and  a  deft  arm,  comrade." 

"Ah,  it  was  in  the  game.  It  is  good  play  to  assist 
your  partner,"  the  half-breed  replied  sententiously. 

Through  all,  the  Indian  had  remained  stoical.  But 
McGann,  who  swore  by  Trafford — as  he  had  once  sworn 
by  another  of  the  Trafford  race — had  his  heart  on  his 
lips,  and  said: 

"  There's  a  swate  little  cherub  that  sits  up  aloft, 
Who  cares  for  the  soul  of  poor  Jack!" 

It  was  long  after  midnight  ere  they  settled  down 
again,  with  the  wreck  of  the  forest  round  them.  Only 
the  Indian  slept;  the  others  were  alert  and  restless. 
They  were  up  at  daybreak,  and  on  their  way  before 
sunrise,  filled  with  desire  for  prey.  They  had  not 
travelled  far  before  they  emerged  upon  a  plateau. 
Around  them  were  the  hills  of  the  Mighty  Men — 
austere,  majestic;  at  their  feet  was  a  vast  valley  on 
which  the  light  newly-fallen  snow  had  not  hidden  all 
the  grass.  Lonely  and  lofty,  it  was  a  world  waiting 
chastely  to  be  peopled!  And  now  it  was  peopled,  for 


190  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

there  came  from  a  cleft  of  the  hills  an  army  of  buffaloes 
lounging  slowly  down  the  waste,  with  tossing  manes 
and  hoofs  stirring  the  snow  into  a  feathery  scud. 

The  eyes  of  Trafford  and  McGann  swam;  Pierre's 
face  was  troubled,  and  strangely  enough  he  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross. 

At  that  instant  Trafford  saw  smoke  issuing  from  a 
spot  on  the  mountain  opposite.  He  turned  to  the 
Indian:  "Someone  lives  there?"  he  said. 

"It  is  the  home  of  the  dead,  but  life  is  also  there." 

"White  man,  or  Indian?" 

But  no  reply  came.  The  Indian  pointed  instead  to 
the  buffalo  rumbling  down  the  valley.  Trafford  forgot 
the  smoke,  forgot  everything  except  that  splendid 
quarry.  Shon  was  excited.  "Sarpints  alive,"  he  said, 
"look  at  the  troops  of  thim!  Is  it  standin'  here  we  are 
with  our  tongues  in  our  cheeks,  whin  there's  bastes  to 
be  killed,  and  mate  to  be  got,  and  the  call  to  war  on  the 
ground  below!  Clap  spurs  with  your  heels,  sez  I,  and 
down  the  side  of  the  turf  together  and  give  'em  the  teeth 
of  our  guns!"  The  Irishman  dashed  down  the  slope. 
In  an  instant,  all  followed,  or  at  least  Trafford  thought 
all  followed,  swinging  their  guns  across  their  saddles  to 
be  ready  for  this  excellent  foray.  But  while  Pierre  rode 
hard,  it  was  at  first  without  the  fret  of  battle  hi  him,  and 
he  smiled  strangely,  for  he  knew  that  the  Indian  had 
disappeared  as  they  rode  down  the  slope,  though  how 
and  why  he  could  not  tell.  There  ran  through  his  head 
tales  chanted  at  camp-fires  when  he  was  not  yet  in 
stature  so  high  as  the  loins  that  bore  him.  They  rode 
hard,  and  yet  they  came  no  nearer  to  that  flying  herd 
straining  on  with  white  streaming  breath  and  the  surf 
of  snow  rising  to  their  quarters.  Mile  upon  mile,  and 
yet  they  could  not  ride  these  monsters  down! 


THE  SCARLET  HUNTER  191 

Now  Pierre  was  leading.  There  was  a  kind  of  fury 
in  his  face,  and  he  seemed  at  last  to  gain  on  them. 
But  as  the  herd  veered  close  to  a  wall  of  stalwart  pines, 
a  horseman  issued  from  the  trees  and  joined  the  cattle. 
The  horseman  was  in  scarlet  from  head  to  foot;  and 
with  his  coming  the  herd  went  faster,  and  ever  faster, 
until  they  vanished  into  the  mountain-side;  and  they 
who  pursued  drew  in  their  trembling  horses  and  stared 
at  each  other  with  wonder  in  their  faces. 

"In  God's  name  what  does  it  mean?"  Trafford  cried. 

"Is  it  a  trick  of  the  eye  or  the  hand  of  the  devil?" 
added  Shon. 

"In  the  name  of  God  we  shall  know  perhaps.  If  it 
is  the  hand  of  the  devil  it  is  not  good  for  us,"  remarked 
Pierre. 

"Who  was  the  man  in  scarlet  who  came  from  the 
woods?"  asked  Trafford  of  the  half-breed. 

"  Voilti,  it  is  strange!  There  is  an  old  story  among  the 
Indians!  My  mother  told  many  tales  of  the  place  and 
sang  of  it,  as  I  sang  to  you.  The  legend  was  this : — In 
the  hills  of  the  North  which  no  white  man,  nor  no  Injin 
of  this  time  hath  seen,  the  forefathers  of  the  red  men 
sleep;  but  some  day  they  will  wake  again  and  go  forth 
and  possess  all  the  land;  and  the  buffalo  are  for  them 
when  that  tune  shall  come,  that  they  may  have  the 
fruits  of  the  chase,  and  that  it  be  as  it  was  of  old,  when 
the  cattle  were  as  clouds  on  the  horizon.  And  it  was 
ordained  that  one  of  these  mighty  men  who  had  never 
been  vanquished  in  fight,  nor  done  an  evil  thing,  and 
was  the  greatest  of  all  the  chiefs,  should  live  and  not 
die,  but  be  as  a  sentinel,  as  a  lion  watching,  and  preserve 
the  White  Valley  in  peace  until  his  brethren  waked  and 
came  into  their  own  again.  And  him  they  called  the 
Scarlet  Hunter;  and  to  this  hour  the  red  men  pray  to 


192  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

him  when  they  lose  their  way  upon  the  plains,  or  Death 
draws  aside  the  curtains  of  the  wigwam  to  call  them 
forth." 

" Repeat  the  verses  you  sang,  Pierre/'  said  Trafford. 

The  half-breed  did  so.  When  he  came  to  the  words, 
''Who  loveth  the  beast  of  the  field  the  best,"  the  Eng- 
lishman looked  round.  "Where  is  Shangi?"  he  asked. 

McGann  shook  his  head  in  astonishment  and  nega- 
tion. Pierre  explained:  "On  the  mountain-side  where 
we  ride  down  he  is  not  seen — he  vanish  .  .  .  mon  Dieu, 
look!" 

On  the  slope  of  the  mountain  stood  the  Scarlet 
Hunter  with  drawn  bow.  From  it  an  arrow  flew  over 
their  heads  with  a  sorrowful  twang,  and  fell  where  the 
smoke  rose  among  the  pines;  then  the  mystic  figure 
disappeared. 

McGann  shuddered,  and  drew  himself  together.  "It 
is  the  place  of  spirits,"  he  said;  "and  it's  little  I  like 
it,  God  knows;  but  I'll  follow  that  Scarlet  Hunter, 
or  red  devil,  or  whatever  he  is,  till  I  drop,  if  the  Hon- 
ourable gives  the  word.  For  flesh  and  blood  I'm  not 
afraid  of;  and  the  other  we  come  to,  whether  we  will 
or  not,  one  day." 

But  Trafford  said:  "No,  we'll  let  it  stand  where  it 
is  for  the  present.  Something  has  played  our  eyes  false, 
or  we're  brought  here  to  do  work  different  from  buffalo- 
hunting.  Where  that  arrow  fell  among  the  smoke  we 
must  go  first.  Then,  as  I  read  the  riddle,  we  travel 
back  the  way  we  came.  There  are  points  in  connection 
with  the  Pipi  Valley  superior  to  the  hills  of  the  Mighty 
Men." 

They  rode  away  across  the  glade,  and  through  a 
grove  of  pines  upon  a  hill,  till  they  stood  before  a  log 
hut  with  parchment  windows. 


THE  SCARLET  HUNTER  193 

Trafford  knocked,  but  there  was  no  response.  He 
opened  the  door  and  entered.  He  saw  a  figure  rise 
painfully  from  a  couch  in  a  corner, — the  figure  of  a 
woman  young  and  beautiful,  but  wan  and  worn.  She 
seemed  dazed  and  inert  with  suffering,  and  spoke 
mournfully:  "It  is  too  late.  Not  you,  nor  any  of  your 
race,  nor  anything  on  earth  can  save  him.  He  is  dead — 
dead  now." 

At  the  first  sound  of  her  voice  Trafford  started.  He 
drew  near  to  her,  as  pale  as  she  was,  and  wonder  and 
pity  were  in  his  face.  "Hester,"  he  said,  "Hester 
Orval!" 

She  stared  at  him  like  one  that  had  been  awakened 
from  an  evil  dream,  then  tottered  towards  him  with  the 
cry, — ' '  Just,  Just,  have  you  come  to  save  me?  0  Just ! " 
His  distress  was  sad  to  see,  for  it  was  held  in  deep  re- 
pression, but  he  said  calmly  and  with  protecting  gentle- 
ness: "Yes,  I  have  come  to  save  you.  Hester,  how  is  it 
you  are  here  in  this  strange  place — you?" 

She  sobbed  so  that  at  first  she  could  not  answer; 
but  at  last  she  cried:  "0  Just,  he  is  dead  ...  in  there, 
in  there!  .  .  .  Last  night,  it  was  last  night;  and  he 
prayed  that  I  might  go  with  him.  But  I  could  not  die 
unforgiven, — and  I  was  right,  for  you  have  come  out  of 
the  world  to  help  me,  and  to  save  me." 

"Yes,  to  help  you  and  to  save  you, — if  I  can,"  he 
added  in  a  whisper  to  himself,  for  he  was  full  of  fore- 
boding. He  was  of  the  earth,  earthy,  and  things  that 
had  chanced  to  him  this  day  were  beyond  the  natural 
and  healthy  movements  of  his  mind.  He  had  gone  forth 
to  slay,  and  had  been  foiled  by  shadows;  he  had  come 
with  a  tragic,  if  beautiful,  memory  haunting  him,  and 
that  memory  had  clothed  itself  in  flesh  and  stood  before 
him,  pitiful,  solitary, — a  woman.  He  had  scorned  all 


194  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

legend  and  superstition,  and  here  both  were  made  mani- 
fest to  him.  He  had  thought  of  this  woman  as  one  who 
was  of  this  world  no  more,  and  here  she  mourned  before 
him  and  bade  him  go  and  look  upon  her  dead,  upon  the 
man  who  had  wronged  him,  into  whom,  as  he  once 
declared,  the  soul  of  a  cur  had  entered, — and  now  what 
could  he  say?  He  had  carried  in  his  heart  the  infinite 
something  that  is  to  men  the  utmost  fulness  of  life, 
which,  losing,  they  must  carry  lead  upon  their  shoulders 
where  they  thought  the  gods  had  given  pinions. 

McGann  and  Pierre  were  nervous.  This  conjunction 
of  unusual  things  was  easier  to  the  intelligences  of  the 
dead  than  the  quick.  The  outer  air  was  perhaps  less 
charged  with  the  unnatural,  and  with  a  glance  towards 
the  room  where  death  was  quartered,  they  left  the  hut. 

Trafford  was  alone  with  the  woman  through  whom 
his  life  had  been  turned  awry.  He  looked  at  her  search- 
ingly;  and  as  he  looked  the  mere  man  in  him  asserted 
itself  for  a  moment.  She  was  dressed  in  coarse  garments; 
it  struck  him  that  her  grief  had  a  touch  of  commonness 
about  it;  there  was  something  imperfect  in  the  dramatic 
setting.  His  recent  experiences  had  had  a  kind  of 
grandeur  about  them;  it  was  not  thus  that  he  had 
remembered  her  in  the  hour  when  he  had  called  upon 
her  hi  the  plains,  and  the  Indian  had  heard  his  cry. 
He  felt,  and  was  ashamed  in  feeling,  that  there  was 
a  grim  humour  in  the  situation.  The  fantastic,  the 
melodramatic,  the  emotional,  were  huddled  here  in  too 
marked  a  prominence;  it  all  seemed,  for  an  instant, 
like  the  tale  of  a  woman's  first  novel.  But  immedi- 
ately again  there  was  roused  in  him  the  latent  force  of 
loyalty  to  himself  and  therefore  to  her;  the  story  of  her 
past,  so  far  as  he  knew  it,  flashed  before  him,  and  his 
eyes  grew  hot. 


THE  SCARLET  HUNTER  195 

He  remembered  the  time  he  had  last  seen  her  in  an 
English  country-house  among  a  gay  party  in  which 
royalty  smiled,  and  the  subject  was  content  beneath 
the  smile.  But  there  was  one  rebellious  subject,  and 
her  name  was  Hester  Orval.  She  was  a  wilful  girl  who 
had  lived  life  selfishly  within  the  lines  of  that  decorous 
yet  pleasant  convention  to  which  she  was  born.  She 
was  beautiful, — she  knew  that,  and  royalty  had  gra- 
ciously admitted  it.  She  was  warm-thoughted,  and 
possessed  the  fatal  strain  of  the  artistic  temperament. 
She  was  not  sure  that  she  had  a  heart;  and  many  others, 
not  of  her  sex,  after  varying  and  enthusiastic  study  of 
the  matter,  were  not  more  confident  than  she.  But  it 
had  come  at  last  that  she  had  listened  with  pensive 
pleasure  to  Trafford's  tale  of  love;  and  because  to  be 
worshipped  by  a  man  high  in  all  men's,  and  in  most 
women's,  esteem,  ministered  delicately  to  her  sweet 
egotism,  and  because  she  was  proud  of  him,  she  gave 
him  her  hand  in  promise,  and  her  cheek  in  privilege, 
but  denied  him — though  he  knew  this  not — her  heart 
and  the  service  of  her  life.  But  he  was  content  to  wait 
patiently  for  that  service,  and  he  wholly  trusted  her,  for 
there  was  in  him  some  fine  spirit  of  the  antique  world. 

There  had  come  to  Falkenstowe,  this  country-house 
and  her  father's  home,  a  man  who  bore  a  knightly  name, 
but  who  had  no  knightly  heart;  and  he  told  Ulysses' 
tales,  and  covered  a  hazardous  and  cloudy  past  with 
that  fascinating  colour  which  makes  evil  appear  to  be 
good,  so  that  he  roused  in  her  the  pulse  of  art,  which 
she  believed  was  soul  and  life,  and  her  allegiance 
swerved.  And  when  her  mother  pleaded  with  her,  and 
when  her  father  said  stern  things,  and  even  royalty, 
with  uncommon  use,  rebuked  her  gently,  her  heart  grew 
hard;  and  almost  on  the  eve  of  her  wedding-day  she 


196  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

fled  with  her  lover,  and  married  him,  and  together  they 
sailed  away  over  the  seas. 

The  world  was  shocked  and  clamorous  for  a  matter 
of  nine  days,  and  then  it  forgot  this  foolish  and  awk- 
ward circumstance;  but  Just  Trafford  never  forgot  it. 
He  remembered  all  vividly  until  the  hour,  a  year  later, 
when  London  journals  announced  that  Hester  Orval 
and  her  husband  had  gone  down  with  a  vessel  wrecked 
upon  the  Alaskan  and  Canadian  coast.  And  there  new 
regret  began,  and  his  knowledge  of  her  ended. 

But  she  and  her  husband  had  not  been  drowned; 
with  a  sailor  they  had  reached  the  shore  in  safety.  They 
had  travelled  inland  from  the  coast  through  the  great 
mountains  by  unknown  paths,  and  as  they  travelled, 
the  sailor  died;  and  they  came  at  last  through  innumer- 
able hardships  to  the  Kimash  Hills,  the  hills  of  the 
Mighty  Men,  and  there  they  stayed.  It  was  not  an  evil 
land;  it  had  neither  deadly  cold  in  winter  nor  wanton 
heat  in  summer.  But  they  never  saw  a  human  face, 
and  everything  was  lonely  and  spectral.  For  a  time 
they  strove  to  go  eastwards  or  southwards  but  the  moun- 
tains were  impassable,  and  in  the  north  and  west  there 
was  no  hope.  Though  the  buffalo  swept  by  them  in  the 
valley  they  could  not  slay  them,  and  they  lived  on  forest 
fruits  until  in  time  the  man  sickened.  The  woman 
nursed  him  faithfully,  but  still  he  failed;  and  when  she 
could  go  forth  no  more  for  food,  some  unseen  dweller  of 
the  woods  brought  buffalo  meat,  and  prairie  fowl,  and 
water  from  the  spring,  and  laid  them  beside  her  door. 

She  had  seen  the  mounds  upon  the  hill,  the  wide 
couches  of  the  sleepers,  and  she  remembered  the  things 
done  in  the  days  when  God  seemed  nearer  to  the  sons 
of  men  than  now;  and  she  said  that  a  spirit  had  done 
this  thing,  and  trembled  and  was  thankful.  But  the 


THE  SCARLET  HUNTER  197 

man  weakened  and  knew  that  he  should  die,  and  one 
night  when  the  pain  was  sharp  upon  him  he  prayed 
bitterly  that  he  might  pass,  or  that  help  might  come  to 
snatch  him  from  the  grave.  And  as  they  sobbed  to- 
gether, a  form  entered  at  the  door, — a  form  clothed  in 
scarlet, — and  he  bade  them  tell  the  tale  of  their  lives 
as  they  would  some  time  tell  it  unto  heaven.  And  when 
the  tale  was  told  he  said  that  succour  should  come  to 
them  from  the  south  by  the  hand  of  the  Scarlet  Hunter, 
that  the  nation  sleeping  there  should  no  more  be  dis- 
turbed by  their  moaning.  And  then  he  had  gone  forth, 
and  with  his  going  there  was  a  storm  such  as  that  in 
which  the  man  had  died,  the  storm  that  had  assailed 
the  hunters  in  the  forest  yesterday. 

This  was  the  second  part  of  Hester  Orval's  life  as 
she  told  it  to  Just  Trafford.  And  he,  looking  into  her 
eyes,  knew  that  she  had  suffered,  and  that  she  had 
sounded  her  husband's  unworthiness.  Then  he  turned 
from  her  and  went  into  the  room  where  the  dead  man 
lay.  And  there  all  hardness  passed  from  him,  and  he 
understood  that  in  the  great  going  forth  man  reckons 
to  the  full  with  the  deeds  done  in  that  brief  pilgrimage 
called  life;  and  that  in  the  bitter  journey  which  this 
one  took  across  the  dread  spaces  between  Here  and 
There,  he  had  repented  of  his  sins,  because  they,  and 
they  only,  went  with  him  in  mocking  company;  the 
good  having  gone  first  to  plead  where  evil  is  a  debtor 
and  hath  a  prison.  And  the  woman  came  and  stood 
beside  Trafford,  and  whispered,  "At  first — and  at  the 
last — he  was  kind." 

But  he  urged  her  gently  from  the  room:  "Go  away," 
he  said;  "go  away.  We  cannot  judge  him.  Leave  me 
alone  with  him." 

They  buried  him  upon  the  hill-side,  far  from  the 


198  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

mounds  where  the  Mighty  Men  waited  for  their  sum- 
mons to  go  forth  and  be  the  lords  of  the  North  again. 
At  night  they  buried  him  when  the  moon  was  at  its  full ; 
and  he  had  the  fragrant  pines  for  his  bed,  and  the  warm 
darkness  to  cover  him;  and  though  he  is  to  those  others 
resting  there  a  heathen  and  an  alien,  it  may  be  that  he 
sleeps  peacefully. 

When  Traff ord  questioned  Hester  Orval  more  deeply 
of  her  life  there,  the  unearthly  look  quickened  in  her 
eyes,  and  she  said:  "Oh,  nothing,  nothing  is  real  here, 
but  suffering;  perhaps  it  is  all  a  dream,  but  it  has 
changed  me,  changed  me.  To  hear  the  tread  of  the 
flying  herds,  to  see  no  being  save  him,  the  Scarlet 
Hunter,  to  hear  the  voices  calling  in  the  night!  .  .  . 
Hush!  There,  do  you  not  hear  them?  It  is  midnight 
—listen!" 

He  listened,  and  Pierre  and  Shon  McGann  looked 
at  each  other  apprehensively,  while  Shon's  fingers  felt 
hurriedly  along  the  beads  of  a  rosary  which  he  did  not 
hold.  Yes,  they  heard  it,  a  deep  sonorous  sound:  "Is 
the  daybreak  come?"  "It  is  still  the  night,"  came  the 
reply  as  of  one  clear  voice.  And  then  there  floated 
through  the  hills  more  softly:  "We  sleep — we  sleep!" 
And  the  sounds  echoed  through  the  valley — "Sleep — 
sleep!" 

Yet  though  these  things  were  full  of  awe,  the  spirit 
of  the  place  held  them  there,  and  the  fever  of  the  hunter 
descended  on  them  hotly.  In  the  morning  they  went 
forth,  and  rode  into  the  White  Valley  where  the  buffalo 
were  feeding,  and  sought  to  steal  upon  them;  but  the 
shots  from  their  guns  only  awoke  the  hills,  and  none  were 
slain.  And  though  they  rode  swiftly,  the  wide  surf  of 
snow  was  ever  between  them  and  the  chase,  and  their 
striving  availed  nothing.  Day  after  day  they  followed 


THE  SCARLET  HUNTER  199 

that  flying  column,  and  night  after  night  they  heard 
the  sleepers  call  from  the  hills.  The  desire  of  the 
thing  wasted  them,  and  they  forgot  to  eat  and  ceased 
to  talk  among  themselves.  But  one  day  Shon  McGann, 
muttering  avcs  as  he  rode,  gamed  on  the  cattle,  until 
once  again  the  Scarlet  Hunter  came  forth  from  a  cleft 
of  the  mountains,  and  drove  the  herd  forward  with 
swifter  feet.  But  the  Irishman  had  learned  the  power 
in  this  thing,  and  had  taught  Trafford,  who  knew  not 
those  availing  prayers,  and  with  these  sacred  conjura- 
tions on  their  lips  they  gained  on  the  cattle  length  by 
length,  though  the  Scarlet  Hunter  rode  abreast  of  the 
thundering  horde.  Within  easy  range,  Trafford  swung 
his  gun  shoulderwards  to  fire,  but  at  that  instant  a 
cloud  of  snow  rose  up  between  him  and  his  quarry  so 
that  they  all  were  blinded.  And  when  they  came  into 
the  clear  sun  again  the  buffalo  were  gone;  but  flaming 
arrows  from  some  unseen  hunter's  bow  came  singing 
over  their  heads  towards  the  south;  and  they  obeyed 
the  sign,  and  went  back  to  where  Hester  wore  her  life 
out  with  anxiety  for  them,  because  she  knew  the  hope- 
lessness of  their  quest.  Women  are  nearer  to  the  heart 
of  things.  And  now  she  begged  Trafford  to  go  south- 
wards before  winter  froze  the  plains  impassably,  and 
the  snow  made  tombs  of  the  valleys.  Thereupon  he 
gave  the  word  to  go,  and  said  that  he  had  done  wrong 
— for  now  the  spell  was  falling  from  him. 

But  she,  seeing  his  regret,  said:  "Ah,  Just,  it  could 
not  have  been  different.  The  passion  of  it  was  on  you 
as  it  was  on  us,  as  if  to  teach  us  that  hunger  for  happi- 
ness is  robbery,  and  that  the  covetous  desire  of  man  is 
not  the  wrill  of  the  gods.  The  herds  are  for  the  Mighty 
Men  when  they  awake,  not  for  the  stranger  and  the 
Philistine." 


200  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"You  have  grown  wise,  Hester,"  he  replied. 

"No,  I  am  sick  in  brain  and  body;  but  it  may  be 
that  in  such  sickness  there  is  wisdom." 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "it  has  turned  my  head,  I  think.  Once 
I  laughed  at  all  such  fanciful  things  as  these.  This 
Scarlet  Hunter, — how  many  times  have  you  seen  him?" 

"But  once." 

"What  were  his  looks?" 

"A  face  pale  and  strong,  with  noble  eyes;  and  in  his 
.voice  there  was  something  strange." 

Trafford  thought  of  Shangi,  the  Indian, — where  had 
he  gone?  He  had  disappeared  as  suddenly  as  he  had 
come  to  their  camp  in  the  South. 

As  they  sat  silent  in  the  growing  night,  the  door 
opened  and  the  Scarlet  Hunter  stood  before  them. 

"There  is  food,"  he  said,  "on  the  threshold — food 
for  those  who  go  upon  a  far  journey  to  the  South  in 
the  morning.  Unhappy  are  they  who  seek  for  gold  at 
the  rainbow's  foot,  who  chase  the  fire-fly  in  the  night, 
who  follow  the  herds  in  the  White  Valley.  Wise  are 
they  who  anger  not  the  gods,  and  who  fly  before  the 
rising  storm.  There  is  a  path  from  the  valley  for  the 
strangers,  the  path  by  which  they  came;  and  when  the 
sun  stares  forth  again  upon  the  world,  the  way  shall  be 
open,  and  there  shall  be  safety  for  you  until  your  travel 
ends  hi  the  quick  world  whither  you  go.  You  were 
foolish;  now  you  are  wise.  It  is  time  to  depart;  seek 
not  to  return,  that  we  may  have  peace  and  you  safety. 
When  the  world  cometh  to  her  spring  again  we  shall 
meet."  Then  he  turned  and  was  gone,  with  Trafford's 
voice  ringing  after  him, — "Shangi!  Shangi!" 

They  ran  out  swiftly,  but  he  had  vanished.  In  the 
valley  where  the  moonlight  fell  in  icy  coldness  a  herd 
of  cattle  was  moving,  and  their  breath  rose  like  the 


THE  SCARLET  HUNTER  201 

spray  from  sea-beaten  rocks,  and  the  sound  of  their 
breathing  was  borne  upwards  to  the  watchers. 

At  daybreak  they  rode  down  into  the  valley.  All 
was  still.  Not  a  trace  of  life  remained;  not  a  hoof- 
mark  in  the  snow,  nor  a  bruised  blade  of  grass.  And 
when  they  climbed  to  the  plateau  and  looked  back,  it 
seemed  to  Trafford  and  his  companions,  as  it  seemed 
in  after  years,  that  this  thing  had  been  all  a  fantasy. 
But  Hester's  face  was  beside  them,  and  it  told  of 
strange  and  unsubstantial  things.  The  shadows  of  the 
middle  world  were  upon  her.  And  yet  again  when  they 
turned  at  the  last  there  was  no  token.  It  was  a  northern 
valley,  with  sun  and  snow,  and  cold  blue  shadows,  and 
the  high  hills, — that  was  all. 

Then  Hester  said:  "0  Just,  I  do  not  know  if  this  is 
life  or  death — and  yet  it  must  be  death,  for  after  death 
there  is  forgiveness  to  those  who  repent,  and  your 
face  is  forgiving  and  kind." 

And  he — for  he  saw  that  she  needed  much  human 
help  and  comfort — gently  laid  his  hand  on  hers  and 
replied:  "Hester,  this  is  life,  a  new  life  for  both  of  us. 
Whatever  has  been  was  a  dream;  whatever  is  now" 
— and  he  folded  her  hand  in  his — "is  real;  and  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  forgiveness  to  be  spoken  of  between 
us.  There  shall  be  happiness  for  us  yet,  please  God!" 

' '  I  want  to  go  to  Falkenstowe.  Will — will  my  mother 
forgive  me?" 

"Mothers  always  forgive,  Hester,  else  half  the  world 
had  slain  itself  in  shame." 

And  then  she  smiled  for  the  first  time  since  he  had 
seen  her.  This  was  in  the  shadows  of  the  scented  pines; 
and  a  new  life  breathed  upon  her,  as  it  breathed  upon 
them  all,  and  they  knew  that  the  fever  of  the  White 
Valley  had  passed  away  from  them  forever. 


202  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

After  many  hardships  they  came  in  safety  to  the 
regions  of  the  south  country  again;  and  the  tale  they 
told,  though  doubted  by  the  race  of  pale-faces,  was 
believed  by  the  heathen;  because  there  was  none  among 
them  but,  as  he  cradled  at  his  mother's  breasts,  and 
from  his  youth  up,  had  heard  the  legend  of  the  Scarlet 
Hunter. 

For  the  romance  of  that  journey,  it  concerned  only 
the  man  and  woman  to  whom  it  was  as  wine  and  meat 
to  the  starving.  Is  not  love  more  than  legend,  and  a 
human  heart  than  all  the  beasts  of  the  field  or  any  joy 
of  slaughter? 


THE  STONE 


THE  STONE 

THE  Stone  hung  on  a  jutting  crag  of  Purple  Hill.  On 
one  side  of  it,  far  beneath,  lay  the  village,  huddled  to- 
gether as  if,  through  being  close  compacted,  its  handful 
of  humanity  should  not  be  a  mere  dust  in  the  balance 
beside  Nature's  portentousness.  Yet  if  one  stood  be- 
side The  Stone,  and  looked  down,  the  flimsy  wooden 
huts  looked  like  a  barrier  at  the  end  of  a  great  flume. 
For  the  hill  hollowed  and  narrowed  from  The  Stone  to 
the  village,  as  if  giants  had  made  this  concave  path  by 
trundling  boulders  to  that  point  like  a  funnel  where  the 
miners'  houses  now  formed  a  cul-de-sac.  On  the  other 
side  of  the  crag  was  a  valley  also;  but  it  was  lonely  and 
untenanted;  and  at  one  flank  of  The  Stone  were  serried 
legions  of  trees. 

The  Stone  was  a  mighty  and  wonderful  thing. 
Looked  at  from  the  village  direct,  it  had  nothing  but  the 
sky  for  a  background.  At  tunes,  also,  it  appeared  to 
rest  on  nothing;  and  many  declared  that  they  could 
see  clean  between  it  and  the  oval  floor  of  the  crag  on 
which  it  rested.  That  was  generally  in  the  evening, 
when  the  sun  was  setting  behind  it.  Then  the  light 
coiled  round  its  base,  between  it  and  its  pedestal,  thus 
making  it  appear  to  hover  above  the  hill-point,  or, 
planet-like,  to  be  just  settling  on  it.  At  other  times, 
when  the  light  was  perfectly  clear  and  not  too  strong, 
and  the  village  side  of  the  crag  was  brighter  than  the 
other,  more  accurate  relations  of  The  Stone  to  its 
pedestal  could  be  discovered.  Then  one  would  say  that 

205 


206  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

it  balanced  on  a  tiny  base,  a  toe  of  granite.  But  if  one 
looked  long,  especially  in  the  summer,  when  the  air 
throbbed,  it  evidently  rocked  upon  that  toe;  if  steadily, 
and  very  long,  he  grew  tremulous,  perhaps  afraid.  Once, 
a  woman  who  was  about  to  become  a  mother  went  mad, 
because  she  thought  The  Stone  would  hurtle  down  the 
hill  at  her  great  moment  and  destroy  her  and  her  child. 
Indians  would  not  live  either  on  the  village  side  of  The 
Stone  or  in  the  valley  beyond.  They  had  a  legend  that, 
some  day,  one,  whom  they  called  The  Man  Who  Sleeps, 
would  rise  from  his  hidden  couch  in  the  mountains,  and, 
being  angry  that  any  dared  to  cumber  his  playground, 
would  hurl  The  Stone  upon  them  that  dwelt  at  Purple 
Hill.  But  white  men  pay  little  heed  to  Indian  legends. 
At  one  tune  or  another  every  person  who  had  come  to 
the  village  visited  The  Stone.  Colossal  as  it  was,  the 
real  base  on  which  its  weight  rested  was  actually  very 
small :  the  view  from  the  village  had  not  been  all  deceit- 
ful. It  is  possible,  indeed,  that  at  one  time  it  had  really 
rocked,  and  that  the  rocking  had  worn  for  it  a  shallow 
cup,  or  socket,  in  which  it  poised.  The  first  man  who 
came  to  Purple  Valley  prospecting  had  often  stopped 
his  work  and  looked  at  The  Stone  in  a  half -fear  that  it 
would  spring  upon  him  unawares.  And  yet  he  had  as 
often  laughed  at  himself  for  doing  so,  since,  as  he  said, 
it  must  have  been  there  hundreds  of  thousands  of  years. 
Strangers,  when  they  came  to  the  village,  went  to  sleep 
somewhat  timidly  the  first  night  of  then*  stay,  and  not 
infrequently  left  their  beds  to  go  and  look  at  The  Stone, 
as  it  hung  there  ominously  hi  the  light  of  the  moon;  or 
listened  towards  it  if  it  was  dark.  When  the  moon  rose 
late,  and  The  Stone  chanced  to  be  directly  in  front  of 
it,  a  black  sphere  seemed  to  be  rolling  into  the  light  to 
blot  it  out. 


THE  STONE  207 

But  none  who  lived  in  the  village  looked  upon  The 
Stone  in  quite  the  same  fashion  as  did  that  first  man  who 
had  come  to  the  valley.  He  had  seen  it  through  three 
changing  seasons,  with  no  human  being  near  him,  and 
only  occasionally  a  shy,  wandering  elk,  or  a  cloud  of 
wild  ducks  whirring  down  the  pass,  to  share  his  com- 
panionship with  it.  Once  he  had  waked  in  the  early 
morning,  and,  possessed  of  a  strange  feeling,  had  gone 
out  to  look  at  The  Stone.  There,  perched  upon  it,  was 
an  eagle;  and  though  he  said  to  himself  that  an  eagle's 
weight  was  to  The  Stone  as  a  feather  upon  the  world, 
he  kept  his  face  turned  towards  it  all  day;  for  all  day 
the  eagle  stayed.  He  was  a  man  of  great  stature  and 
immense  strength.  The  thews  of  his  limbs  stood  out 
like  soft  unbreakable  steel.  Yet,  as  if  to  cast  derision 
on  his  strength  and  great  proportions,  God  or  Fate 
turned  his  bread  to  ashes,  gave  failure  into  his  hands 
where  he  hugely  grasped  at  fortune,  and  hung  him  about 
with  misery.  He  discovered  gold,  but  others  gathered 
it.  It  was  his  daughter  that  went  mad,  and  gave  birth 
to  a  dead  child  in  fearsome  thought  of  The  Stone.  Once, 
when  he  had  gone  over  the  hills  to  another  mining  field, 
and  had  been  prevented  from  coming  back  by  unex- 
pected and  heavy  snows,  his  wife  was  taken  ill,  and  died 
alone  of  starvation,  because  none  in  the  village  remem- 
bered of  her  and  her  needs.  Again,  one  wild  night,  long 
after,  his  only  son  was  taken  from  his  bed  and  lynched 
for  a  crime  that  was  none  of  his,  as  was  discovered  by 
his  murderers  next  day.  Then  they  killed  horribly  the 
real  criminal,  and  offered  the  father  such  satisfaction 
as  they  could.  They  said  that  any  one  of  them  was 
ready  there  to  be  killed  by  him;  and  they  threw  a 
weapon  at  his  feet.  At  this  he  stood  looking  upon  them 
for  a  moment,  his  great  breast  heaving,  and  his  eyes 


208  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

glowering;  but  presently  he  reached  out  his  arms,  and 
taking  two  of  them  by  the  throat,  brought  their  heads 
together  heavily,  breaking  their  skulls;  and,  with  a  cry 
in  his  throat  like  a  wounded  animal,  left  them,  and 
entered  the  village  no  more.  But  it  became  known  that 
he  had  built  a  rude  hut  on  Purple  Hill,  and  that  he  had 
been  seen  standing  beside  The  Stone  or  sitting  among 
the  boulders  below  it,  with  his  face  bent  upon  the  vil- 
lage. Those  who  had  come  near  to  him  said  that  he  had 
greatly  changed;  that  his  hair  and  beard  had  grown 
long  and  strong,  and,  in  effect,  that  he  looked  like  some 
rugged  fragment  of  an  antique  world. 

The  tune  came  when  they  associated  The  Man  with 
The  Stone:  they  grew  to  speak  of  him  simply  as  The 
Man.  There  was  something  natural  and  apt  in  the 
association.  Then  they  avoided  these  two  singular 
dwellers  on  the  height.  What  had  happened  to  The 
Man  when  he  lived  in  the  village  became  almost  as 
great  a  legend  as  the  Indian  fable  concerning  The  Stone. 
In  the  minds  of  the  people  one  seemed  as  old  as  the 
other.  Women  who  knew  the  awful  disasters  which 
had  befallen  The  Man  brooded  at  times  most  timidly, 
regarding  him  as  they  did  at  first — and  even  still — The 
Stone.  Women  who  carried  life  unborn  about  with 
them  had  a  strange  dread  of  both  The  Stone  and  The 
Man.  Time  passed  on,  and  the  feeling  grew  that  The 
Man's  grief  must  be  a  terrible  thing,  since  he  lived  alone 
with  The  Stone  and  God.  But  this  did  not  prevent  the 
men  of  the  village  from  digging  gold,  drinking  liquor, 
and  doing  many  kinds  of  evil.  One  day,  again,  they  did 
an  unjust  and  cruel  thing.  They  took  Pierre,  the  gam- 
bler, whom  they  had  at  first  sought  to  vanquish  at  his 
own  art,  and,  possessed  suddenly  of  the  high  duty  of 
citizenship,  carried  him  to  the  edge  of  a  hill  and  dropped 


THE  STONE  209 

him  over,  thinking  thereby  to  give  him  a  quick  death, 
while  the  vultures  would  provide  him  a  tomb.  But 
Pierre  was  not  killed,  though  to  his  grave — unprepared 
as  yet — he  would  bear  an  arm  which  should  never  be 
lifted  higher  than  his  shoulder.  When  he  waked  from 
the  crashing  gloom  which  succeeded  the  fall,  he  was  hi 
the  presence  of  a  being  whose  appearance  was  awesome 
and  massive — an  outlawed  god:  whose  hah-  and  beard 
were  white,  whose  eye  was  piercing,  absorbing,  painful, 
in  the  long  perspective  of  its  woe.  This  being  sat  with 
his  great  hand  clasped  to  the  side  of  his  head.  The 
beginning  of  his  look  was  the  village,  and — though  the 
vision  seemed  infinite — the  village  was  the  end  of  it  too. 
Pierre,  looking  through  the  doorway  beside  which  he 
lay,  drew  in  his  breath  sharply,  for  it  seemed  at  first 
as  if  The  Man  was  an  unnatural  fancy,  and  not  a  thing. 
Behind  The  Man  was  The  Stone,  which  was  not  more 
motionless  nor  more  full  of  age  than  this  its  comrade. 
Indeed,  The  Stone  seemed  more  a  thing  of  life  as  it 
poised  above  the  hill:  The  Man  was  sculptured  rock. 
His  white  hair  was  chiselled  on  his  broad  brow,  his  face 
was  a  solemn  pathos  petrified,  his  lips  were  curled  with 
an  iron  contempt,  an  incalculable  anger. 

The  sun  went  down,  and  darkness  gathered  about 
The  Man.  Pierre  reached  out  his  hand,  and  drank  the 
water  and  ate  the  coarse  bread  that  had  been  put  near 
him.  He  guessed  that  trees  or  protruding  ledges  had 
broken  his  fall,  and  that  he  had  been  rescued  and 
brought  here.  As  he  lay  thinking,  The  Man  entered 
the  doorway,  stooping  much  to  do  so.  With  flints  he 
lighted  a  wick  which  hung  from  a  wooden  bowl  of  bear's 
oil;  then  kneeling,  held  it  above  his  head,  and  looked  at 
Pierre.  And  Pierre,  who  had  never  feared  anyone, 
shrank  from  the  look  in  The  Man's  eyes.  But  when  the 


210  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

other  saw  that  Pierre  was  awake,  a  distant  kindness 
came  upon  his  face,  and  he  nodded  gravely;  but  he  did 
not  speak.  Presently  a  great  tremor  as  of  pain  shook 
all  his  limbs,  and  he  set  the  candle  on  the  ground,  and 
with  his  stalwart  hands  arranged  afresh  the  bandages 
about  Pierre's  injured  arm  and  leg.  Pierre  spoke  at 
last. 

"You  are  The  Man?"  he  said. 

The  other  bowed  his  head. 

"You  saved  me  from  those  devils  in  the  valley?" 

A  look  of  impregnable  hardness  came  into  The  Man's 
face,  but  he  pressed  Pierre's  hand  for  answer;  and 
though  the  pressure  was  meant  to  be  gentle,  Pierre 
winced  painfully.  The  candle  spluttered,  and  the  hut 
filled  with  a  sickly  smoke.  The  Man  brought  some  bear 
skins  and  covered  the  sufferer,  for,  the  season  being 
autumn,  the  night  was  cold.  Pierre,  who  had  thus  spent 
his  first  sane  and  conscious  hour  in  many  days,  fell 
asleep.  What  tune  it  was  when  he  waked  he  was  not 
sure,  but  it  was  to  hear  a  metallic  click-click  come 
to  him  through  the  clear  ah*  of  night.  It  was  a  pleasant 
noise  as  of  steel  and  rock:  the  work  of  some  lonely 
stone-cutter  of  the  hills.  The  sound  reached  him  with 
strange,  increasing  distinctness.  Was  this  Titan  that 
had  saved  him  sculpturing  some  figure  from  the  metal 
hill?  Click-click!  it  vibrated  as  regularly  as  the  keen 
pulse  of  a  watch.  He  lay  and  wondered  for  a  long  time, 
but  fell  asleep  again;  and  the  steely  iteration  went  on 
in  his  dreams. 

In  the  morning  The  Man  came  to  him,  and  cared  for 
his  hurts,  and  gave  him  food;  but  still  would  speak 
no  word.  He  was  gone  nearly  all  day  in  the  hills;  yet 
when  evening  came  he  sought  the  place  where  Pierre 
had  seen  him  the  night  before,  and  the  same  weird 


THE  STONE  211 

scene  was  re-enacted.  And  again  in  the  night  the  click- 
ing sound  went  on;  and  every  night  it  was  renewed. 
Pierre  grew  stronger,  and  could,  with  difficulty,  stand 
upon  his  feet.  One  night  he  crept  out,  and  made  his 
way  softly,  slowly  towards  the  sound.  He  saw  The 
Man  kneeling  beside  The  Stone,  he  saw  a  hammer  rise 
and  fall  upon  a  chisel;  and  the  chisel  was  at  the  base 
of  The  Stone.  The  hammer  rose  and  fell  with  perfect 
but  dreadful  precision.  Pierre  turned  and  looked  to- 
wards the  village  below,  whose  lights  were  burning  like 
a  bunch  of  fire-flies  in  the  gloom.  Again  he  looked  at 
The  Stone  and  The  Man. 

Then  the  thing  came  to  him  sharply.  The  Man  was 
chiselling  away  the  socket  of  The  Stone,  bringing  it  to 
that  point  of  balance  where  the  touch  of  a  finger,  the 
wing  of  a  bird,  or  the  whistle  of  a  north-west  wind, 
would  send  it  down  upon  the  offending  and  unsuspect- 
ing village. 

The  thought  held  him  paralysed.  The  Man  had 
nursed  his  revenge  long  past  the  thought  of  its  prob- 
ability by  the  people  beneath.  He  had  at  first  sat  and 
watched  the  village,  hated,  and  mused  dreadfully  upon 
the  thing  he  had  determined  to  do.  Then  he  had 
worked  a  little,  afterwards  more,  and  now,  lastly,  since 
he  had  seen  what  they  had  done  to  Pierre,  with  the  hot 
but  firm  eagerness  of  an  avenging  giant.  Pierre  had 
done  some  sad  deeds  in  his  time,  and  had  tasted  some 
sweet  revenges,  but  nothing  like  to  this  had  ever  entered 
his  brain.  In  that  village  were  men  who — as  they 
thought — had  cast  him  to  a  death  fit  only  for  a  coward 
or  a  cur.  Well,  here  was  the  most  exquisite  retaliation. 
Though  his  hand  should  not  be  in  the  thing,  he  could 
still  be  the  cynical  and  approving  spectator. 

But  yet:  had  all  those  people  hovering  about  those 


212  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

lights  below  done  harm  to  him?  He  thought  there 
were  a  few — and  they  were  women — who  would  not 
have  followed  his  tumbril  to  his  death  with  cries  of  exe- 
cration. The  rest  would  have  done  so, — most  of  them 
did  so, — not  because  he  was  a  criminal,  but  because  he 
was  a  victim,  and  because  human  nature  as  it  is  thirsts 
inordinately  at  tunes  for  blood  and  sacrifice — a  living 
strain  of  the  old  barbaric  instinct.  He  remembered  that 
most  of  these  people  were  concerned  in  having  injured 
The  Man.  The  few  good  women  there  had  vile  hus- 
bands; the  few  pardonable  men  had  hateful  wives:  the 
village  of  Purple  Hill  was  an  ill  affair. 

He  thought :  now  doubtfully,  now  savagely,  now  with 
irony. 

The  hammer  and  steel  clicked  on. 

He  looked  at  the  lights  of  the  village  again. 

Suddenly  there  came  to  his  mind  the  words  of  a  great 
man  who  sought  to  save  a  city  manifold  centuries  ago. 
He  was  not  sure  that  he  wished  to  save  this  village;  but 
there  was  a  grim,  almost  grotesque,  fitness  in  the  thing 
that  he  now  intended.  He  spoke  out  clearly  through 
the  night: 

"'Oh,  let  not  the  Lord  be  angry,  and  I  will  speak  yet 
but  this  once:  Per  adventure  ten  righteous  shall  be  found 
there.'" 

The  hammer  stopped.  There  was  a  silence,  in  which 
the  pines  sighed  lightly.  Then,  as  if  speaking  was  a 
labour,  The  Man  replied  hi  a  deep,  harsh  voice: 

"I  will  not  spare  it  for  ten's  sake." 

Again  there  was  a  silence,  in  which  Pierre  felt  his 
maimed  body  bend  beneath  him;  but  presently  the 
voice  said, — ' '  Now ! ' ' 

At  this  the  moon  swung  from  behind  a  cloud.  The 
Man  stood  behind  The  Stone.  His  arm  was  raised  to 


THE  STONE  213 

it.  There  was  a  moment's  pause — it  seemed  like  years 
to  Pierre;  a  wind  came  softly  crying  out  of  the  west, 
the  moon  hurried  into  the  dark,  and  then  a  monster 
sprang  from  its  pedestal  upon  Purple  Hill,  and,  with  a 
sound  of  thunder  and  an  awful  speed,  raced  upon  the 
village  below.  The  boulders  of  the  hillside  crumbled 
after  it. 

And  Pierre  saw  the  lights  go  out. 

The  moon  shone  out  again  for  an  instant,  and  Pierre 
saw  that  The  Man  stood  where  The  Stone  had  been; 
but  when  he  reached  the  place  The  Man  was  gone. 
Forever! 


THE  TALL  MASTER 


THE  TALL  MASTER 

THE  story  has  been  so  much  tossed  about  in  the  mouths 
of  Indians,  and  half-breeds,  and  men  of  the  Hudson's 
Bay  Company,  that  you  are  pretty  sure  to  hear  only 
an  apocryphal  version  of  the  thing  as  you  now  travel 
in  the  North.  But  Pretty  Pierre  was  at  Fort  Luke  when 
the  battle  occurred,  and,  before  and  after,  he  sifted  the 
business  thoroughly.  For  he  had  a  philosophical  turn, 
and  this  may  be  said  of  him,  that  he  never  lied  except 
to  save  another  from  danger.  In  this  matter  he  was 
cool  and  impartial  from  first  to  last,  and  evil  as  his  repu- 
tation was  in  many  ways  there  were  those  who  believed 
and  trusted  him.  Himself,  as  he  travelled  here  and 
there  through  the  North,  had  heard  of  the  Tall  Master. 
Yet  he  had  never  met  anyone  who  had  seen  him;  for 
the  Master  had  dwelt,  it  was  said,  chiefly  among  the 
strange  tribes  of  the  Far-Off  Metal  River  whose  faces 
were  almost  white,  and  who  held  themselves  aloof  from 
the  southern  races.  The  tales  lost  nothing  by  being 
retold,  even  when  the  historians  were  the  men  of  the 
H.  B.  C.; — Pierre  knew  what  accomplished  liars  may  be 
found  among  that  Company  of  Adventurers  trading  in 
Hudson's  Bay,  and  how  their  art  had  been  none  too 
delicately  engrafted  by  his  own  people.  But  he  was, 
as  became  him,  open  to  conviction,  especially  when, 
journeying  to  Fort  Luke,  he  heard  what  John  Hybar, 
the  Chief  Factor — a  man  of  uncommon  quality — had 
to  say.  Hybar  had  once  lived  long  among  those  Indians 
of  the  Bright  Stone,  and  had  seen  many  rare  things 

217 


218  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

among  them.  He  knew  their  legends  of  the  White 
Valley  and  the  Hills  of  the  Mighty  Men,  and  how  their 
distinctive  character  had  imposed  itself  on  the  whole 
Indian  race  of  the  North,  so  that  there  was  none  but 
believed,  even  though  vaguely,  in  a  pleasant  land  not 
south  but  Arcticwards;  and  Pierre  himself,  with  Shon 
McGann  and  Just  Trafford,  had  once  had  a  strange 
experience  hi  the  Kimash  Hills.  He  did  not  share  the 
opinion  of  Lazenby,  the  Company's  clerk  at  Fort  Luke, 
who  said,  when  the  matter  was  talked  of  before  him, 
that  it  was  all  hanky-panky, — which  was  evidence  that 
he  had  lived  in  London  town,  before  his  anxious  rela- 
tives, 'sending  him  forth  under  the  delusive  flag  of  ad- 
venture and  wild  life,  imprisoned  him  in  the  Arctic 
regions  with  the  H.  B.  C. 

Lazenby  admired  Pierre;  said  he  was  good  stuff, 
and  voted  him  amusing,  with  an  ingenious  emphasis  of 
heathen  oaths;  but  advised  him,  as  only  an  insolent 
young  scoundrel  can,  to  forswear  securing,  by  the  se- 
ductive game  of  poker  or  euchre,  larger  interest  on  his 
capital  than  the  H.  B.  C.;  whose  record,  he  insisted, 
should  never  be  rivalled  by  any  single  man  in  any  single 
lifetime.  Then  he  incidentally  remarked  that  he  would 
like  to  empty  the  Company's  cash-box  once — only  once; 
— thus  reconciling  the  preacher  and  the  sinner,  as  many 
another  has  done.  Lazenby's  morals  were  not  bad, 
however.  He  was  simply  fond  of  making  them  appear 
terrible;  even  when  in  London  he  was  more  idle  than 
wicked.  He  gravely  suggested  at  last,  as  a  kind  of  cli- 
max, that  he  and  Pierre  should  go  out  on  the  pad  to- 
gether. This  was  a  mere  stroke  of  pleasantry  on  his 
part,  because,  the  most  he  could  loot  in  that  far  North 
were  furs  and  caches  of  buffalo  meat;  and  a  man's 
capacity  and  use  for  them  were  limited.  Even  Pierre's 


THE  TALL  MASTER  219 

especial  faculty  and  art  seemed  valueless  so  far  Pole- 
wards; but  he  had  his  beat  throughout  the  land,  and 
he  kept  it  like  a  perfect  patrolman.  He  had  not  been 
at  Fort  Luke  for  years,  and  he  would  not  be  there  again 
for  more  years;  but  it  was  certain  that  he  would  go  on 
reappearing  till  he  vanished  utterly.  At  the  end  of  the 
first  week  of  this  visit  at  Fort  Luke,  so  completely  had 
he  conquered  the  place,  that  he  had  won  from  the  Chief 
Factor  the  year's  purchases  of  skins,  the  stores,  and  the 
Fort  itself;  and  every  stitch  of  clothing  owned  by 
Lazenby :  so  that,  if  he  had  insisted  on  the  redemption 
of  the  debts,  the  H.  B.  C.  and  Lazenby  had  been  naked 
and  hungry  in  the  wilderness.  But  Pierre  was  not  a 
hard  creditor.  He  instantly  and  nonchalantly  said  that 
the  Fort  would  be  useless  to  him,  and  handed  it  back 
again  with  all  therein,  on  a  most  humorously  con- 
structed ninety-nine  years'  lease;  while  Lazenby  was 
left  in  pawn.  Yet  Lazenby's  mind  was  not  at  certain 
ease;  he  had  a  wholesome  respect  for  Pierre's  singulari- 
ties, and  dreaded  being  suddenly  called  upon  to  pay  his 
debt  before  he  could  get  his  new  clothes  made, — maybe, 
in  the  presence  of  Wind  Driver,  chief  of  the  Golden 
Dogs,  and  his  demure  and  charming  daughter,  Wine 
Face,  who  looked  upon  him  with  the  eye  of  affection — 
a  matter  fully,  but  not  ostentatiously,  appreciated  by 
Lazenby.  If  he  could  have  entirely  forgotten  a  pretty 
girl  in  South  Kensington,  who,  at  her  parents'  bidding, 
turned  her  shoulder  on  him,  he  would  have  married 
Wine  Face;  and  so  he  told  Pierre.  But  the  half-breed 
had  only  a  sardonic  sympathy  for  such  weakness. 

Things  changed  at  once  when  Shon  McGann  arrived. 
He  should  have  come  before,  according  to  a  promise 
given  Pierre,  but  there  were  reasons  for  the  delay;  and 
these  Shon  elaborated  in  his  finely  picturesque  style. 


220  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

He  said  that  he  had  lost  his  way  after  he  left  the  Wapiti 
Woods,  and  should  never  have  found  it  again,  had  it  not 
been  for  a  strange  being  who  came  upon  him  and  took 
him  to  the  camp  of  the  White  Hand  Indians,  and  cared 
for  him  there,  and  sent  him  safely  on  his  way  again  to 
Fort  Luke. 

"Sorra  wan  did  I  ever  see  like  him,"  said  Shon,  "with 
a  face  that  was  divil  this  minute  and  saint  the  next; 
pale  hi  the  cheek,  and  black  in  the  eye,  and  grizzled 
hair  flowin'  long  at  his  neck  and  lyin'  like  snakes  on  his 
shoulders;  and  whin  his  fingers  closed  on  yours,  be- 
dad!  they  didn't  seem  human  at  all,  for  they  clamped 
you  so  cold  and  strong." 

"'For  they  clamped  you  so  cold  and  strong,'"  re- 
plied Pierre,  mockingly,  yet  greatly  interested,  as  one 
could  see  by  the  upward  range  of  his  eye  towards  Shon. 
"Well,  what  more?" 

"Well,  squeeze  the  acid  from  y'r  voice,  Pierre;  for 
there's  things  that  better  become  you :  and  listen  to  me, 
for  I've  news  for  all  here  at  the  Fort,  before  I've  done, 
which'll  open  y'r  eyes  with  a  jerk." 

"With  a  wonderful  jerk,  hold!  let  us  prepare,  mes- 
sieurs, to  be  waked  with  an  Irish  jerk!"  and  Pierre  pen- 
sively trifled  with  the  fringe  on  Shon's  buckskin  jacket, 
which  was  whisked  from  his  fingers  with  smothered 
anger.  For  a  few  moments  he  was  silent;  but  the 
eager  looks  of  the  Chief  Factor  and  Lazenby  encouraged 
him  to  continue.  Besides,  it  was  only  Pierre's  way — 
provoking  Shon  was  the  piquant  sauce  of  his  life. 

"Lyin'  awake  I  was,"  continued  Shon,  "in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  night,  not  bein'  able  to  sleep  for  a  pain  in  a 
shoulder  I'd  strained,  whin  I  heard  a  thing  that  drew 
me  up  standin'.  It  was  the  sound  of  a  child  laughin', 
so  wonderful  and  bright,  and  at  the  very  door  of  me  tent 


THE  TALL  MASTER  221 

it  seemed.  Then  it  faded  away  till  it  was  only  a  breath, 
lovely,  and  idle,  and  swingin'.  I  wint  to  the  door  and 
looked  out.  There  was  nothin'  there,  av  coorse." 

"And  why  'av  coorse'?"  rejoined  Pierre.  The  Chief 
Factor  was  intent  on  what  Shon  was  saying,  while 
Lazenby  drummed  his  fingers  on  the  table,  his  nose  in 
the  air. 

"Divils  me  darlin',  but  ye  know  as  well  as  I,  that 
there's  things  in  the  world  neither  for  havin'  nor  hand- 
lin'.  And  that's  wan  of  thim,  says  I  to  meself.  ...  I 
wint  back  and  lay  down,  and  I  heard  the  voice  singin' 
now  and  comin'  nearer  and  nearer,  and  growin'  louder 
and  louder,  and  then  there  came  with  it  a  patter  of 
feet,  till  it  was  as  a  thousand  children  were  dancin'  by 
me  door.  I  was  shy  enough,  I'll  own;  but  I  pulled 
aside  the  curtain  of  the  tent  to  see  again:  and  there  was 
nothin'  beyand  for  the  eye.  But  the  singin'  was  goin' 
past  and  recedin'  as  before,  till  it  died  away  along  the 
waves  of  prairie  grass.  I  wint  back  and  give  Grey  Nose, 
my  Injin  bed-fellow,  a  lift  wid  me  fut.  'Come  out  of 
that,'  says  I,  'and  tell  me  if  dead  or  alive  I  am.'  He 
got  up,  and  there  was  the  noise  soft  and  grand  again, 
but  with  it  now  the  voices  of  men,  the  flip  of  birds' 
wings  and  the  sighin'  of  tree  tops,  and  behind  all  that 
the  long  wash  of  a  sea  like  none  I  ever  heard.  .  .  . 
'Well,'  says  I  to  the  Injin  grinnin'  before  me,  'what's 
that,  in  the  name  o'  Moses?'  'That,'  says  he,  laughin' 
slow  in  me  face,  'is  the  Tall  Master — him  that  brought 
you  to  the  camp.'  Thin  I  renumbered  all  the  things 
that's  been  said  of  him,  and  I  knew  it  was  music  I'd 
been  hearin'  and  not  children's  voices  nor  anythin'  else 
at  all. 

"'Come  with  me/  says  Grey  Nose;  and  he  took  me 
to  the  door  of  a  big  tent  standin'  alone  from  the  rest. 


222  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

'Wait  a  minute,'  says  he,  and  he  put  his  hand  on  the 
tent  curtain;  and  at  that  there  was  a  crash,  as  a  mil- 
lion gold  hammers  were  fallin'  on  silver  drums.  And 
we  both  stood  still;  for  it  seemed  an  army,  with  swords 
wranglin'  and  bridle-chains  rattlin',  was  marchin'  down 
on  us.  There  was  the  divil's  own  uproar,  as  a  battle  was 
comin'  on;  and  a  long  line  of  spears  clashed.  But  just 
then  there  whistled  through  the  larrup  of  sound  a  clear 
voice  callin',  gentle  and  coaxin',  yet  commandin'  too; 
and  the  spears  dropped,  and  the  pounding  of  horse- 
hoofs  ceased,  and  then  the  army  marched  away;  far 
away;  iver  so  far  away,  into — ' 

"Into  Heaven!"  flippantly  interjected  Lazenby. 

"Into  Heaven,  say  I,  and  be  choked  to  you!  for 
there's  no  other  place  for  it;  and  I'll  stand  by  that,  till 
I  go  there  myself,  and  know  the  truth  o'  the  thing." 

Pierre  here  spoke.  "Heaven  gave  you  a  fine  trick 
with  words,  Shon  McGann.  I  sometimes  think  Irish- 
men have  gifts  for  only  two  things — words  and  women. 
.  .  .  Bien,  what  then?" 

Shon  was  determined  not  to  be  angered.  The  occa- 
sion was  too  big.  "Well,  Grey  Nose  lifted  the  curtain 
and  wint  in.  In  a  minute  he  comes  out.  'You  can  go 
in,'  says  he.  So  in  I  wint,  the  Injin  not  comin',  and  there 
in  the  middle  of  the  tint  stood  the  Tall  Master,  alone. 
He  had  his  fiddle  to  his  chin,  and  the  bow  hoverin'  above 
it.  He  looked  at  me  for  a  long  time  along  the  thing; 
then,  all  at  once,  from  one  string  I  heard  the  child 
laughin'  that  pleasant  and  distant,  though  the  bow 
seemed  not  to  be  touchin'.  Soon  it  thinned  till  it  was  the 
shadow  of  a  laugh,  and  I  didn't  know  whin  it  stopped, 
he  smilin'  down  at  the  fiddle  bewhiles.  Then  he  said 
without  lookin'  at  me, — 'It  is  the  spirit  of  the  White 
Valley  and  the  Hills  of  the  Mighty  Men;  of  which  all 


THE  TALL  MASTER  223 

men  shall  know,  for  the  North  will  come  to  her  spring 
again  one  day  soon,  at  the  remaking  of  the  world.  They 
thought  the  song  would  never  be  found  again,  but  I 
have  given  it  a  home  here.'  And  he  bent  and  kissed  the 
strings.  After,  he  turned  sharply  as  if  he'd  been  spoken 
to,  and  looked  at  someone  beside  him;  someone  that  I 
couldn't  see.  A  cloud  dropped  upon  his  face,  he  caught 
the  fiddle  hungrily  to  his  breast,  and  came  limpin'  over 
to  me — for  there  was  somethin'  wrong  with  his  fut — 
and  lookin'  down  his  hook-nose  at  me,  says  he, — 'I've 
a  word  for  them  at  Fort  Luke,  where  you're  goin',  and 
you'd  better  be  gone  at  once;  and  I'll  put  you  on  your 
way.  There's  to  be  a  great  battle.  The  White  Hands 
have  an  ancient  feud  with  the  Golden  Dogs,  and  they 
have  come  from  where  the  soft  Chinook  wind  ranges 
the  Peace  River,  to  fight  until  no  man  of  all  the  Golden 
Dogs  be  left,  or  till  they  themselves  be  destroyed.  It 
is  the  same  north  and  south,'  he  wint  on;  'I  have  seen 
it  all  in  Italy,  in  Greece,  in — '  but  here  he  stopped  and 
smiled  strangely.  After  a  minute  he  wint  on:  'The 
White  Hands  have  no  quarrel  with  the  Englishmen  of 
the  Fort,  and  I  would  warn  them, — for  Englishmen  were 
once  kind  to  me — and  warn  also  the  Golden  Dogs.  So 
come  with  me  at  once,'  says  he.  And  I  did.  And  he 
walked  with  me  till  mornin',  carryin'  the  fiddle  under  his 
arm,  but  wrapped  in  a  beautiful  velvet  cloth,  havin'  on 
it  grand  figures  like  the  arms  of  a  king  or  queen.  And 
just  at  the  first  whisk  of  sun  he  turned  me  into  a  trail 
and  give  me  good-bye,  sayin'  that  maybe  he'd  follow 
me  soon,  and,  at  any  rate,  he'd  be  there  at  the  battle. 
Well,  divils  betide  me!  I  got  off  the  track  again;  and 
lost  a  day;  but  here  I  am;  and  there's  me  story  to  take 
or  lave  as  you  will." 

Shon  paused  and  began  to  fumble  with  the  cards 


224  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

on  the  table  before  him,  looking  the  while  at  the 
others. 

The  Chief  Factor  was  the  first  to  speak.  "I  don't 
doubt  but  he  told  you  true  about  the  White  Hands  and 
the  Golden  Dogs,"  he  said;  "for  there's  been  war  and 
bad  blood  between  them  beyond  the  memory  of  man — 
at  least  since  the  tune  that  the  Mighty  Men  lived,  from 
which  these  date  their  history.  But  there's  nothing 
to  be  done  to-night;  for  if  we  tell  old  Wind  Driver, 
there'll  be  no  sleeping  at  the  Fort.  So  we'll  let  the  thing 
stand." 

"You  believe  all  this  poppy-cock,  Chief?  "  said  Lazen- 
by  to  the  Factor,  but  laughing  in  Shon's  face  the  while. 

The  Factor  gravely  replied:  "I  knew  of  the  Tall 
Master  years  ago  on  the  Far-Off  Metal  River;  and 
though  I  never  saw  him  I  can  believe  these  things — 
and  more.  You  do  not  know  this  world  through  and 
through,  Lazenby;  you  have  much  to  learn." 

Pierre  said  nothing.  He  took  the  cards  from  Shon 
and  passed  them  to  and  fro  in  his  hand.  Mechanically 
he  dealt  them  out,  and  as  mechanically  they  took  them 
up  and  in  silence  began  to  play. 

The  next  day  there  was  commotion  and  excitement 
at  Fort  Luke.  The  Golden  Dogs  were  making  prepa- 
rations for  the  battle.  Pow-wow  followed  pow-wow, 
and  paint  and  feathers  followed  all.  The  H.  B.  C. 
people  had  little  to  do  but  look  to  their  guns  and  house 
everything  within  the  walls  of  the  Fort. 

At  night,  Shon,  Pierre,  and  Lazenby  were  seated 
about  the  table  in  the  common-room,  the  cards  lying 
dealt  before  them,  waiting  for  the  Factor  to  come. 
Presently  the  door  opened  and  the  Factor  entered,  fol- 
lowed by  another.  Shon  and  Pierre  sprang  to  their 
feet. 


THE  TALL  MASTER  225 

"The  Tall  Master,"  said  Shon  with  a  kind  of  awe; 
and  then  stood  still. 

Their  towering  visitor  slowly  unloosed  something 
he  carried  very  carefully  and  closely  beneath  his  arm, 
and  laid  it  on  the  table,  dropping  his  compass-like 
fingers  softly  on  it.  He  bowed  gravely  to  each,  yet  the 
bow  seemed  grotesque,  his  body  was  so  ungainly.  With 
the  eyes  of  all  drawn  to  him  absolutely,  he  spoke  in  a 
low  sonorous  tone:  "I  have  followed  the  traveller  fast" 
— his  hand  lifted  gently  towards  Shon — "for  there  are 
weighty  concerns  abroad,  and  I  have  things  to  say  and 
do  before  I  go  again  to  my  people — and  beyond.  .  .  . 
I  have  hungered  for  the  face  of  a  white  man  these  many 
years,  and  his  was  the  first  I  saw;" — again  he  tossed  a 
long  finger  towards  the  Irishman — "and  it  brought  back 
many  things.  I  remember.  ..."  He  paused,  then  sat 
down;  and  they  all  did  the  same.  He  looked  at  them 
one  by  one  with  distant  kindness.  "I  remember,"  he 
continued,  and  his  strangely  articulated  fingers  folded 
about  the  thing  on  the  table  beside  him,  "when" — 
here  the  cards  caught  his  eye.  His  face  underwent  a 
change.  An  eager  fantastic  look  shot  from  his  eye, — 
"when  I  gambled  this  away  at  Lucca," — his  hand  drew 
the  bundle  closer  to  him — "but  I  won  it  back  again — 
at  a  price!"  he  gloomily  added,  glancing  sideways  as  to 
someone  at  his  elbow. 

He  remained,  eyes  hanging  upon  space  for  a  moment, 
then  he  recollected  himself  and  continued:  "I  became 
wiser;  I  never  risked  it  again;  but  I  loved  the  game 
always.  I  was  a  gamester  from  the  start — the  artist  is 
always  so  when  he  is  greatest, — like  nature  herself. 
And  once,  years  after,  I  played  with  a  mother  for  her 
child — and  mine.  And  yet  once  again  at  Parma  with" 
— here  he  paused,  throwing  that  sharp  sidelong  glance — 


226  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"with  the  greatest  gamester,  for  the  infinite  secret  of  Art: 
and  I  won  it;  but  I  paid  the  price!  ...  I  should  like 
to  play  now." 

He  reached  his  hand,  drew  up  five  cards,  and  ran  his 
eye  through  them.  "Play!"  he  said.  "The  hand  is 
good — very  good.  .  .  .  Once  when  I  played  with  the 
Princess — but  it  is  no  matter;  and  Tuscany  is  far 
away!  .  .  .  Play!"  he  repeated. 

Pierre  instantly  picked  up  the  cards,  with  an  air  of 
cool  satisfaction.  He  had  either  found  the  perfect 
gamester  or  the  perfect  liar.  He  knew  the  remedy  for 
either. 

The  Chief  Factor  did  not  move.  Shon  and  Lazenby 
followed  Pierre's  action.  By  their  positions  Lazenby 
became  his  partner.  They  played  in  silence  for  a 
minute,  the  Tall  Master  taking  all.  "Napoleon  was  a 
wonderful  player,  but  he  lost  with  me,"  he  said  slowly 
as  he  played  a  card  upon  three  others  and  took  them. 

Lazenby  was  so  taken  back  by  this  remark  that, 
presently,  he  trumped  his  partner's  ace,  and  was  re- 
warded by  a  talon-like  look  from  the  Tall  Master's  eye; 
but  it  was  immediately  followed  by  one  of  saturnine 
amusement. 

They  played  on  silently. 

"Ah,  you  are  a  wonderful  player!"  he  presently  said 
to  Pierre,  with  a  look  of  keen  scrutiny.  "Come,  I 
will  play  with  you — for  values — the  first  time  in 
seventy-five  years;  then,  no  more!" 

Lazenby  and  Shon  drew  away  beside  the  Chief  Fac- 
tor. The  two  played.  Meanwhile  Lazenby  said  to 
Shon:  "The  man's  mad.  He  talks  about  Napoleon  as 
if  he'd  known  him — as  if  it  wasn't  three-fourths  of  a 
century  ago.  Does  he  think  we're  all  born  idiots?  Why, 
he's  not  over  sixty  years  old  now.  But  where  the  deuce 


THE  TALL  MASTER  227 

did  he  come  from  with  that  Italian  face?  And  the  fun- 
niest part  of  it  is,  he  reminds  me  of  someone.  Did  you 
notice  how  he  limped — the  awkward  beggar!" 

Lazenby  had  unconsciously  lifted  his  voice,  and  pres- 
ently the  Tall  Master  turned  and  said  to  him:  "I  ran 
a  nail  into  my  foot  at  Leyden  seventy-odd  years  ago." 

"He's  the  devil  himself,"  rejoined  Lazenby,  and  he 
did  not  lower  his  voice. 

"Many  with  angelic  gifts  are  children  of  His  Dark 
Majesty,"  said  the  Tall  Master,  slowly;  and  though  he 
appeared  closely  occupied  with  the  game,  a  look  of 
vague  sadness  came  into  his  face. 

For  a  half-hour  they  played  hi  silence,  the  slight, 
delicate-featured  half-breed,  and  the  mysterious  man 
who  had  for  so  long  been  a  thing  of  wonder  hi  the  North, 
a  weird  influence  among  the  Indians. 

There  was  a  strange,  cold  fierceness  hi  the  Tall 
Master's  face.  He  now  staked  his  precious  bundle 
against  the  one  thing  Pierre  prized — the  gold  watch 
received  years  ago  for  a  deed  of  heroism  on  the  Chau- 
diere.  The  half-breed  had  always  spoken  of  it  as  amus- 
ing, but  Shon  at  least  knew  that  to  Pierre  it  was  worth 
his  right  hand. 

Both  men  drew  breath  slowly,  and  their  eyes  were 
hard.  The  stillness  became  painful;  all  were  possessed 
by  the  grim  spirit  of  Chance.  .  .  .  The  Tall  Master 
won.  He  came  to  his  feet,  his  shambling  body  drawn 
together  to  a  height.  Pierre  rose  also.  Then*  looks 
clinched.  Pierre  stretched  out  his  hand.  "You  are 
my  master  at  this,"  he  said. 

The  other  smiled  sadly.  "I  have  played  for  the  last 
time.  I  have  not  forgotten  how  to  win.  If  I  had  lost, 
uncommon  things  had  happened.  This," — he  laid  his 
hand  on  the  bundle  and  gently  undid  it, — "is  my  oldest 


228  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

friend,  since  the  warm  days  at  Parma  ...  all  dead 
...  all  dead."  Out  of  the  velvet  wrapping,  broidered 
with  royal  and  ducal  arms,  and  rounded  by  a  wreath  of 
violets — which  the  Chief  Factor  looked  at  closely — he 
drew  his  violin.  He  lifted  it  reverently  to  his  lips. 

"My  good  Garnerius!"  he  said.  " Three  masters 
played  you,  but  I  am  chief  of  them  all.  They  had  the 
classic  soul,  but  I  the  romantic  heart — les  grandes 
caprices."  His  head  lifted  higher.  "I  am  the  master 
artist  of  the  world.  I  have  found  the  core  of  Nature. 
Here  in  the  North  is  the  wonderful  soul  of  things.  Be- 
yond this,  far  beyond,  where  the  foolish  think  is  only 
inviolate  ice,  is  the  first  song  of  the  Ages  in  a  very  pleas- 
ant land.  I  am  the  lost  Master,  and  I  shall  return,  I 
shall  return  .  .  .  but  not  yet  .  .  .  not  yet." 

He  fetched  the  instrument  to  his  chin  with  a  noble 
pride.  The  ugliness  of  his  face  was  almost  beautiful 
now. 

The  Chief  Factor's  look  was  fastened  on  him  with 
bewilderment;  he  was  trying  to  remember  something: 
his  mind  went  feeling,  he  knew  not  why,  for  a  certain 
day,  a  quarter  of  a  century  before,  when  he  unpacked 
a  box  of  books  and  papers  from  England.  Most  of 
them  were  still  in  the  Fort.  The  association  of  this  man 
with  these  things  fretted  him. 

The  Tall  Master  swung  his  bow  upward,  but  at  that 
instant  there  came  a  knock,  and,  in  response  to  a  call, 
Wind  Driver  and  Wine  Face  entered.  Wine  Face  was 
certainly  a  beautiful  girl;  and  Lazenby  might  well  have 
been  pardoned  for  throwing  in  his  fate  with  such  a 
heathen,  if  he  despaired  of  ever  seeing  England  again. 
The  Tall  Master  did  not  turn  towards  these.  The 
Indians  sat  gracefully  on  a  bearskin  before  the  fire.  The 
«yes  of  the  girl  were  cast  shyly  upon  the  Man  as  he  stood 


THE  TALL  MASTER  229 

there  unlike  an  ordinary  man;  in  his  face  a  fine  hard- 
ness and  the  cold  light  of  the  North.  He  suddenly 
tipped  his  bow  upward  and  brought  it  down  with  a  most 
delicate  crash  upon  the  strings.  Then  softly,  slowly, 
he  passed  into  a  weird  fantasy.  The  Indians  sat  breath- 
less. Upon  them  it  acted  more  impressively  than  the 
others:  besides,  the  player's  eye  was  searching  them 
now;  he  was  playing  into  their  very  bodies.  And  they 
responded  with  some  swift  shocks  of  recognition  cross- 
ing their  faces.  Suddenly  the  old  Indian  sprang  up. 
He  thrust  his  arms  out,  and  made,  as  if  unconsciously, 
some  fantastic  yet  solemn  motions.  The  player  smiled 
in  a  far-off  fashion,  and  presently  ran  the  bow  upon  the 
strings  in  an  exquisite  cry;  and  then  a  beautiful  ava- 
lanche of  sound  slid  from  a  distance,  growing  nearer  and 
nearer,  till  it  swept  through  the  room,  and  imbedded  all 
in  its  sweetness. 

At  this  the  old  Indian  threw  himself  forward  at  the 
player's  feet.  "It  is  the  song  of  the  White  Weaver, 
the  maker  of  the  world — the  music  from  the  Hills  of 
the  Mighty  Men.  ...  I  knew  it — I  knew  it — but 
never  like  that.  ...  It  was  lost  to  the  world;  the  wild 
cry  of  the  lofty  stars.  ..."  His  face  was  wet. 

The  girl  too  had  risen.  She  came  forward  as  if  in 
a  dream  and  reverently  touched  the  arm  of  the  musician, 
who  paused  now,  and  was  looking  at  them  from  under 
his  long  eyelashes.  She  said  whisperingly:  "Are  you  a 
spirit?  Do  you  come  from  the  Hills  of  the  Mighty 
Men?" 

He  answered  gravely:  "I  am  no  spirit.  But  I  have 
journeyed  in  the  Hills  of  the  Mighty  Men  and  along 
their  ancient  hunting-grounds.  This  that  I  have  played 
is  the  ancient  music  of  the  world — the  music  of  Jubal 
and  his  comrades.  It  comes  humming  from  the  Poles; 


230  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

it  rides  laughing  down  the  planets;  it  trembles  through 
the  snow;  it  gives  joy  to  the  bones  of  the  wind.  .  .  . 
And  I  am  the  voice  of  it,"  he  added;  and  he  drew  up 
his  loose  unmanageable  body  till  it  looked  enormous, 
firm,  and  dominant. 

The  girl's  fingers  ran  softly  over  to  his  breast.  "I 
will  follow  you,"  she  said,  "when  you  go  again  to  the 
Happy  Valleys." 

Down  from  his  brow  there  swept  a  faint  hue  of 
colour,  and,  for  a  breath,  his  eyes  closed  tenderly  with 
hers.  But  he  straightway  gathered  back  his  look  again, 
his  body  shrank,  not  rudely,  from  her  fingers,  and  he 
absently  said:  "I  am  old — hi  years  the  father  of  the 
world.  It  is  a  man's  life  gone  since,  at  Genoa,  she  laid 
her  fingers  on  my  breast  like  that.  .  .  .  These  things 
can  be  no  more  .  .  .  until  the  North  hath  its  summer 
again;  and  I  stand  young — the  Master — upon  the  sum- 
mits of  my  renown." 

The  girl  drew  slowly  back.  Lazenby  was  muttering 
under  his  breath  now;  he  was  overwhelmed  by  this 
change  hi  Wine  Face.  He  had  been  impressed  to  awe 
by  the  Tall  Master's  music,  but  he  was  piqued,  and  de- 
termined not  to  give  in  easily.  He  said  sneeringly  that 
Maskelyne  and  Cooke  in  music  had  come  to  life,  and 
suggested  a  snake-dance. 

The  Tall  Master  heard  these  things,  and  immedi- 
ately he  turned  to  Lazenby  with  an  angry  look  on  his 
face.  His  brows  hung  heavily  over  the  dull  fire  of  his 
eyes;  his  hair  itself  seemed  like  Medusa's,  just  quiver- 
ing into  savage  life;  the  fingers  spread  out  white  and 
claw-like  upon  the  strings  as  he  curved  his  violin  to  his 
chin,  whereof  it  became,  as  it  were,  a  piece.  The  bow 
shot  out  and  down  upon  the  instrument  with  a  great 
clangour.  There  eddied  into  a  vast  arena  of  sound  the 


THE  TALL  MASTER  231 

prodigious  elements  of  war.  Torture  rose  from  those 
four  immeasurable  chords;  destruction  was  afoot  upon 
them;  a  dreadful  dance  of  death  supervened. 

Through  the  Chief  Factor's  mind  there  flashed — 
though  mechanically,  and  only  to  be  remembered  after- 
wards— the  words  of  a  schoolday  poem.  It  shuttled 
in  and  out  of  the  music : 

"  Wheel  the  wild  dance, 
While  lightnings  glance, 
And  thunders  rattle  loud; 
And  call  the  brave  to  bloody  grave, 
To  sleep  without  a  shroud." 

The  face  of  the  player  grew  old  and  drawn.  The 
skin  was  wrinkled,  but  shone,  the  hah*  spread  white, 
the  nose  almost  met  the  chin,  the  mouth  was  all  malice. 
It  was  old  age  with  vast  power:  conquest  volleyed  from 
the  fingers. 

Shon  McGann  whispered  aves,  aching  with  the  sound; 
the  Chief  Factor  shuddered  to  his  feet;  Lazenby  winced 
and  drew  back  to  the  wall,  putting  his  hand  before  his 
face  as  though  the  sounds  were  striking  him;  the  old 
Indian  covered  his  head  with  his  arms  upon  the  floor. 
Wine  Face  knelt,  her  face  all  grey,  her  fingers  lacing 
and  interlacing  with  pain.  Only  Pierre  sat  with  master- 
ful stillness,  his  eyes  never  moving  from  the  face  of  the 
player;  his  arms  folded;  his  feet  firmly  wedded  to  the 
floor.  The  sound  became  strangely  distressing.  It 
shocked  the  flesh  and  angered  the  nerves.  Upon  Lazen- 
by it  acted  singularly.  He  cowered  from  it,  but  pres- 
ently, with  a  look  of  madness  in  his  eyes,  rushed 
forward,  arms  outstretched,  as  though  to  seize  this  in- 
tolerable minstrel.  There  was  a  sudden  pause  in  the 
playing;  then  the  room  quaked  with  noise,  buffeting 


232  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

Lazenby  into  stillness.  The  sounds  changed  instantly 
again,  and  music  of  an  engaging  sweetness  and  delight 
fell  about  them  as  in  silver  drops — an  enchanting  lyric 
of  love.  Its  exquisite  tenderness  subdued  Lazenby, 
who,  but  now,  had  a  heart  for  slaughter.  He  dropped 
on  his  knees,  threw  his  head  into  his  arms,  and  sobbed 
hard.  The  Tall  Master's  fingers  crept  caressingly 
along  one  of  those  heavenly  veins  of  sound,  his  bow 
poising  softly  over  it.  The  farthest  star  seemed  sing- 
ing. 

At  dawn  the  next  day  the  Golden  Dogs  were  gathered 
for  war  before  the  Fort.  Immediately  after  the  sun 
rose,  the  foe  were  seen  gliding  darkly  out  of  the  horizon. 
From  another  direction  came  two  travellers.  These 
also  saw  the  White  Hands  bearing  upon  the  Fort,  and 
hurried  forward.  They  reached  the  gates  of  the  Fort 
in  good  tune,  and  were  welcomed.  One  was  a  chief 
trader  from  a  fort  in  the  west.  He  was  an  old  man,  and 
had  been  many  years  in  the  service  of  the  H.  B.  C.  ; 
and,  like  Lazenby,  had  spent  his  early  days  in  London, 
a  connoisseur  in  all  its  pleasures;  the  other  was  a  voya- 
geur.  They  had  posted  on  quickly  to  bring  news  of  this 
crusade  of  the  White  Hands. 

The  hostile  Indians  came  steadily  to  within  a  few 
hundred  yards  of  the  Golden  Dogs.  Then  they  sent  a 
brave  to  say  that  they  had  no  quarrel  with  the  people 
of  the  Fort;  and  that  if  the  Golden  Dogs  came  on  they 
would  battle  with  them  alone;  since  the  time  had  come 
for  "one  to  be  as  both,"  as  their  Medicine  Men  had 
declared  since  the  days  of  the  Great  Race.  And  this 
signified  that  one  should  destroy  the  other. 

At  this  all  the  Golden  Dogs  ranged  into  line.  The 
sun  shone  brightly,  the  long  hedge  of  pine  woods  in  the 


THE  TALL  MASTER  233 

distance  caught  the  colour  of  the  sky,  the  flowers  of 
the  plains  showed  handsomely  as  a  carpet  of  war.  The 
bodies  of  the  fighters  glistened.  You  could  see  the  rise 
and  fall  of  their  bare,  strenuous  chests.  They  stood  as 
their  forefathers  in  battle,  almost  naked,  with  crested 
head,  gleaming  axe,  scalp-knife,  and  bows  and  arrows. 
At  first  there  was  the  threatening  rustle  of  preparation; 
then  a  great  stillness  came  and  stayed  for  a  moment; 
after  which,  all  at  once,  there  sped  through  the  ah*  a 
big  shout  of  battle,  and  the  innumerable  twang  of 
flying  arrows;  and  the  opposing  hosts  ran  upon  each 
other. 

Pierre  and  Shon  McGann,  watching  from  the  Fort, 
cried  out  with  excitement. 

"Divils  me  darlin'!"  called  Shon,  "are  we  gluin'  our 
eyes  to  a  chink  in  the  wall,  whin  the  tangle  of  battle 
goes  on  beyand?  Bedad,  I'll  not  stand  it!  Look  at 
them  twistin'  the  neck  o'  war!  Open  the  gates,  open 
the  gates  say  I,  and  let  us  have  play  with  our  guns. " 

"Hush!  Mon  Dieu!"  interrupted  Pierre.  "Look! 
The  Tall  Master!" 

None  at  the  Fort  had  seen  the  Tall  Master  since  the 
night  before.  Now  he  was  covering  the  space  between 
the  walls  and  the  battle,  his  hair  streaming  behind  him. 

When  he  came  near  to  the  vortex  of  fight  he  raised  his 
violin  to  his  chin,  and  instantly  a  piercingly  sweet  call 
penetrated  the  wild  uproar.  The  Call  filled  it,  drained 
through  it,  wrapped  it,  overcame  it;  so  that  it  sank 
away  at  last  like  the  outwash  of  an  exhausted  tide :  the 
weft  of  battle  stayed  unfinished  in  the  loom. 

Then  from  the  Indian  lodges  came  the  women  and 
children.  They  drew  near  to  the  unearthly  luxury  of 
that  Call,  now  lifting  with  an  unbounded  joy.  Battle- 
axes  fell  to  the  ground;  the  warriors  quieted  even  where 


234  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

they  stood  locked  with  their  foes.  The  Tall  Master 
now  drew  away  from  them,  facing  the  north  and  west. 
That  ineffable  Call  drew  them  after  him  with  grave  joy; 
and  they  brought  their  dead  and  wounded  along.  The 
women  and  children  glided  in  among  the  men  and  fol- 
lowed also.  Presently  one  girl  ran  away  from  the  rest 
and  came  close  into  the  great  leader's  footsteps. 

At  that  instant,  Lazenby,  from  the  wall  of  the  Fort, 
cried  out  madly,  sprang  down,  opened  the  gates,  and 
rushed  towards  the  girl,  crying:  "Wine  Face!  Wine 
Face!" 

She  did  not  look  behind.  But  he  came  close  to  her 
and  caught  her  by  the  waist.  "Come  back!  Come 
back!  O  my  love,  come  back!"  he  urged;  but  she 
pushed  him  gently  from  her. 

"Hush!  Hush!"  she  said.  "We  are  going  to  the 
Happy  Valleys.  Don't  you  hear  him  calling?"  .  .  . 
And  Lazenby  fell  back. 

The  Tall  Master  was  now  playing  a  wonderful  thing, 
half  dance,  half  carnival;  but  with  that  Call  still  beat- 
ing through  it.  They  were  passing  the  Fort  at  an  angle. 
All  within  issued  forth  to  see.  Suddenly  the  old  trader 
who  had  come  that  morning  started  forward  with  a  cry; 
then  stood  still.  He  caught  the  Factor's  arm;  but  he 
seemed  unable  to  speak  yet;  his  face  was  troubled,  his 
eyes  were  hard  upon  the  player. 

The  procession  passed  the  empty  lodges,  leaving 
the  ground  strewn  with  their  weapons,  and  not  one 
of  their  number  stayed  behind.  They  passed  away 
towards  the  high  hills  of  the  north-west — beautiful 
austere  barriers. 

Still  the  trader  gazed,  and  was  pale,  and  trembled. 
They  watched  long.  The  throng  of  pilgrims  grew  a 
vague  mass;  no  longer  an  army  of  individuals;  and  the 


THE  TALL  MASTER  235 

music  came  floating  back  with  distant  charm.  At  last 
the  old  man  found  voice.  "My  God,  it  is — " 

The  Factor  touched  his  arm,  interrupting  him,  and 
drew  a  picture  from  his  pocket — one  but  just  now  taken 
from  that  musty  pile  of  books,  received  so  many  years 
before.  He  showed  it  to  the  old  man. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  other,  "that  is  he.  .  .  .  And 
the  world  buried  him  forty  years  ago!" 

Pierre,  standing  near,  added  with  soft  irony:  "There 
are  strange  things  hi  the  world.  He  is  the  gamester  of 
the  world.  Mais  a  grand  comrade  also." 

The  music  came  waving  back  upon  them  delicately 
but  the  pilgrims  were  fading  from  view. 

Soon  the  watchers  were  alone  with  the  glowing  day. 


THE  CRIMSON  FLAG 


THE  CRIMSON  FLAG 

TALK  and  think  as  one  would,  The  Woman  was  striking 
to  see;  with  marvellous  flaxen  hair  and  a  joyous  violet 
eye.  She  was  all  pulse  and  dash;  but  she  was  as  much 
less  beautiful  than  the  manager's  wife  as  Tom  Liffey 
was  as  nothing  beside  the  manager  himself;  and  one 
would  care  little  to  name  the  two  women  in  the  same 
breath  if  the  end  had  been  different.  When  The  Woman 
came  to  Little  Goshen  there  were  others  of  her  class 
there,  but  they  were  of  a  commoner  sort  and  degree. 
She  was  the  queen  of  a  lawless  court,  though  she  never, 
from  first  to  last,  spoke  to  one  of  those  others  who  were 
her  people;  neither  did  she  hold  commerce  with  any  of 
the  ordinary  miners,  save  Pretty  Pierre, — but  he  was 
more  gambler  than  miner, — and  he  went,  when  the 
matter  was  all  over,  and  told  her  some  things  that 
stripped  her  soul  naked  before  her  eyes.  Pierre  had 
a  wonderful  tongue.  It  was  only  the  gentlemen-diggers 
— and  there  were  many  of  them  at  Little  Goshen — who 
called  upon  her  when  the  lights  were  low;  and  then 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  muffled  mirth  in  the  white 
house  among  the  pines.  The  rougher  miners  made  no 
quarrel  with  this,  for  the  gentlemen-diggers  were  popu- 
lar enough,  they  were  merely  sarcastic  and  humorous, 
and  said  things  which,  coming  to  The  Woman's  ears, 
made  her  very  merry;  for  she  herself  had  an  abundant 
wit,  and  had  spent  wild  hours  with  clever  men.  She  did 
not  resent  the  playful  insolence  that  sent  a  dozen  miners 
to  her  house  in  the  dead  of  night  with  a  crimson  flag, 

239 


240  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

which  they  quietly  screwed  to  her  roof;  and  paint,  with 
which  they  deftly  put  a  wide  stripe  of  scarlet  round  the 
cornice,  and  another  round  the  basement.  In  the  morn- 
ing, when  she  saw  what  had  been  done,  she  would  not 
have  the  paint  removed  nor  the  flag  taken  down;  for, 
she  said,  the  stripes  looked  very  well,  and  the  other 
would  show  that  she  was  always  at  home. 

Now,  the  notable  thing  was  that  Heldon,  the  manager, 
was  in  The  Woman's  house  on  the  night  this  was  done. 
Tom  Liffey,  the  lumpish  guide  and  trapper,  saw  him 
go  in;  and,  days  afterwards,  he  said  to  Pierre:  "Divils 
me  own,  but  this  is  a  bad  hour  for  Heldon's  wife — she 
with  a  face  like  a  princess  and  eyes  like  the  fear  o'  God. 
Nivir  a  wan  did  I  see  like  her,  since  I  came  out  of  Erin 
with  a  clatter  of  hoofs  behoind  me  and  a  squall  on  the 
sea  before.  There 's  wimmin  there  wid  cheeks  like  roses 
and  buthermilk,  and  a  touch  that'd  make  y'r  heart 
pound  on  y'r  ribs;  but  none  that's  grander  than  Hel- 
don's wife.  To  lave  her  for  that  other,  standin'  hip- 
high  in  her  shame,  is  temptin'  the  fires  of  Heaven, 
that  basted  the  sinners  o'  Sodom." 

Pierre,  pausing  between  the  whiffs  of  a  cigarette, 
said:  "So?  But  you  know  more  of  catching  foxes  in 
winter,  and  climbing  mountains  hi  summer,  and  the 
grip  of  the  arm  of  an  Injin  girl,  than  of  these  things.  You 
are  young,  quite  young  in  the  world,  Tom  Liffey." 

"Young  I  may  be  with  a  glint  o'  grey  at  me  temples 
from  a  night  o'  trouble  beyand  in  the  hills;  but  I'm 
the  man,  an'  the  only  man,  that's  climbed  to  the  glacier- 
top — God's  Playground,  as  they  call  it:  and  nivir  a 
dirty  trick  have  I  done  to  Injin  girl  or  any  other;  and 
be  damned  to  you  there!" 

"Sometimes  I  think  you  are  as  foolish  as  Shon 
McGann,"  compassionately  replied  the  half-breed. 


THE  CRIMSON  FLAG  241 

"You  have  almighty  virtue,  and  you  did  that  brave 
trick  of  the  glacier;  but  great  men  have  fallen.  You 
are  not  dead  yet.  Still,  as  you  say,  Heldon's  wife  is 
noble  to  see.  She  is  grave  and  cold,  and  speaks  little; 
but  there  is  something  in  her  which  is  not  of  the  meek 
of  the  earth.  Some  women  say  nothing,  and  suffer  and 
forgive,  and  take  such  as  Heldon  back  to  their  bosoms; 
but  there  are  others — I  remember  a  woman — Hen,  it 
is  no  matter,  it  was  long  ago;  but  they  two  are  as  if 
born  of  one  mother;  and  what  comes  of  this  will  be 
mad  play — mad  play." 

"Av  coorse  his  wife  may  not  get  to  know  of  it, 
and—" 

"Not  get  to  know  it!    'Tsh,  you  are  a  child — " 

"Faith,  I'll  say  what  I  think,  and  that  in  y'r  face! 
Maybe  he'll  tire  of  the  handsome  rip — for  handsome 
she  is,  like  a  yellow  lily  growin'  out  o'  mud — and  go 
back  to  his  lawful  wife,  that  believes  he's  at  the  mines, 
when  he's  drinkin'  and  colloguin'  wid  a  fly-away." 

Pierre  slowly  wheeled  till  he  had  the  Irishman  straight 
in  his  eye.  Then  he  said  hi  a  low,  cutting  tone:  "I  sup- 
pose your  heart  aches  for  the  beautiful  lady,  eh?" 
Here  he  screwed  his  slight  forefinger  into  Tom's  breast; 
then  he  added  sharply:  "Nom  de  Dieu,  but  you  make 
me  angry!  You  talk  too  much.  Such  men  get  into 
trouble.  And  keep  down  the  riot  of  that  heart  of 
yours,  Tom  Liffey,  or  you'll  walk  on  the  edge  of 
knives  one  day.  And  now  take  an  inch  of  whisky  and 
ease  the  anxious  soul.  Voila!"  After  a  moment  he 
added :  "Women  work  these  things  out  for  themselves." 

Then  the  two  left  the  hut,  and  amiably  strolled  to- 
gether to  the  centre  of  the  village,  where  they  parted. 

It  was  as  Pierre  had  said:  the  woman  would  work 
the  thing  out  for  herself.  Later  that  evening  Heldon's 


242  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

wife  stood  cloaked  and  veiled  in  the  shadows  of  the 
pines,  facing  the  house  with  The  Crimson  Flag.  Her 
eyes  shifted  ever  from  the  door  to  the  flag,  which  was 
stirred  by  the  light  breeze.  Once  or  twice  she  shivered 
as  with  cold,  but  she  instantly  stilled  again,  and 
watched.  It  was  midnight.  Here  and  there  beyond 
in  the  village  a  light  showed,  and  straggling  voices 
floated  faintly  towards  her.  For  a  long  time  no  sound 
came  from  the  house.  But  at  last  she  heard  a  laugh. 
At  that  she  drew  something  from  her  pocket,  and  held 
it  firmly  in  her  hand.  Once  she  turned  and  looked  at 
another  house  far  up  on  the  hill,  where  lights  were 
burning.  It  was  Heldon's  house — her  home.  A  sharp 
sound  as  of  anguish  and  anger  escaped  her;  then  she 
fastened  her  eyes  on  the  door  in  front  of  her. 

At  that  moment  Tom  Liffey  was  standing  with  his 
hands  on  his  hips  looking  at  Heldon's  home  on  the  hill; 
and  he  said  some  rumbling  words,  then  strode  on  down 
the  road,  and  suddenly  paused  near  the  wife.  He  did 
not  see  her.  He  faced  the  door  at  which  she  was  look- 
ing, and  shook  his  fist  at  it. 

"A  murrain  on  y'r  sowl!"  said  he,  "as  there's  plague 
in  y'r  body,  and  hell  in  the  slide  of  y'r  feet,  like  the  trail 
of  the  red  spider.  And  out  o'  that  come  ye,  Heldon, 
for  I  know  y're  there.  Out  of  that,  ye  beast!  .  .  .  But 
how  can  ye  go  back — you  that's  rolled  hi  that  sewer — 
to  the  loveliest  woman  that  ever  trod  the  neck  o'  the 
world!  Damned  y'  are  in  every  joint  o'  y'r  frame,  and 
damned  is  y'r  sowl,  I  say,  for  bringing  sorrow  to  her; 
and  I  hate  you  as  much  for  that,  as  I  could  worship 
her  was  she  not  your  wife  and  a  lady  o'  blood,  God  save 
her!" 

Then  shaking  his  fist  once  more,  he  swung  away 
slowly  down  the  road.  During  this  the  wife's  teeth 


THE  CRIMSON  FLAG  243 

held  together  as  though  they  were  of  a  piece.  She 
looked  after  Tom  Liffey  and  smiled;  but  it  was  a  dread- 
ful smile. 

"He  worships  me,  that  common  man — worships  me, " 
she  said.  "This  man  who  was  my  husband  has  shamed 
me,  left  me.  Well—" 

The  door  of  the  house  opened;  a  man  came  out. 
His  wife  leaned  a  little  forward,  and  something  clicked 
ominously  in  her  hand.  But  a  voice  came  up  the  road 
towards  them  through  the  clear  air — the  voice  of  Tom 
Liffey.  The  husband  paused  to  listen ;  the  wife  mechan- 
ically did  the  same.  The  husband  remembered  this 
afterwards:  it  was  the  key  to,  and  the  beginning  of, 
a  tragedy.  These  are  the  words  the  Irishman  sang: 

"  She  was  a  queen,  she  stood  up  there  before  me, 

My  blood  went  roarin'  when  she  touched  my  hand; 
She  kissed  me  on  the  lips,  and  then  she  swore  me 
To  die  for  her — and  happy  was  the  land. " 

A  new  and  singular  look  came  into  her  face.  It  trans- 
formed her.  "That,"  she  said  in  a  whisper  to  herself — 
"that!  He  knows  the  way." 

As  her  husband  turned  towards  his  home,  she  turned 
also.  He  heard  the  rustle  of  garments,  and  he  could 
just  discern  the  cloaked  figure  in  the  shadows.  He  hur- 
ried on;  the  figure  flitted  ahead  of  him.  A  fear  pos- 
sessed him  in  spite  of  his  will.  He  turned  back.  The 
figure  stood  still  for  a  moment,  then  followed  him.  He 
braced  himself,  faced  about,  and  walked  towards  it: 
it  stopped  and  waited.  He  had  not  the  courage.  He 
went  back  again  swiftly  towards  the  house  he  had  left. 
Again  he  looked  behind  him.  The  figure  was  standing, 
not  far,  in  the  pines.  He  wheeled  suddenly  towards 
the  house,  turned  a  key  in  the  door,  and  entered. 


244  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

Then  the  wife  went  to  that  which  had  been  her  home : 
Heldon  did  not  go  thither  until  the  first  flush  of  morn- 
ing. Pierre,  returning  from  an  all-night  sitting  at  cards, 
met  him,  and  saw  the  careworn  look  on  his  face.  The 
half-breed  smiled.  He  knew  that  the  event  was  doub- 
ling on  the  man.  When  Heldon  reached  his  house,  he 
went  to  his  wife's  room.  It  was  locked.  Then  he  walked 
down  to  his  mines  with  a  miserable  shame  and  anger  at 
his  heart.  He  did  not  pass  The  Crimson  Flag.  He  went 
by  another  way 

That  evening,  in  the  dusk,  a  woman  knocked  at  Tom 
Liffey's  door.  He  opened  it. 

"Are  you  alone?"  she  said. 

"I  am  alone,  lady." 

"I  will  come  in,"  she  added. 

"You  will — come  in?"  he  faltered. 

She  drew  near  him,  and  reached  out  and  gently 
caught  his  hand. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  with  a  sound  almost  like  a  sob  in  its 
intensity,  and  the  blood  flushed  to  his  hair. 

He  stepped  aside,  and  she  entered.  In  the  light  of 
the  candle  her  eye  burned  into  his,  but  her  face  wore 
a  shining  coldness.  She  leaned  towards  him. 

"You  said  you  could  worship  me,"  she  whis- 
pered, "and  you  cursed  him.  Well — worship  me — al- 
together— and  that  will  curse  him,  as  he  has  killed 
me." 

"Dear  lady!"  he  said,  in  an  awed,  overwhelmed 
murmur;  and  he  fell  back  to  the  wall. 

She  came  towards  him.  "Am  I  not  beautiful?"  she 
urged.  She  took  his  hand.  His  eye  swam  with  hers. 
But  his  look  was  different  from  hers,  though  he  could 
not  know  that.  His  was  the  madness  of  a  man  in  a 
dream;  hers  was  a  painful  thing.  The  Furies  dwelt 


THE  CRIMSON  FLAG  245 

in  her.  She  softly  lifted  his  hand  above  his  head,  and 
whispered:  "Swear."  And  she  kissed  him.  Her  lips 
were  icy,  though  he  did  not  think  so.  The  blood  tossed 
in  his  veins.  He  swore :  but,  doing  so,  he  could  not  con- 
ceive all  that  would  be  required  of  him.  He  was  hers, 
body  and  soul,  and  she  had  resolved  on  a  grim  thing. 
...  In  the  darkness,  they  left  the  hut  and  passed  into 
the  woods,  and  slowly  up  through  the  hills. 

Heldon  returned  to  his  home  that  night  to  find  it 
empty.  There  were  no  servants.  There  was  no  wife. 
Her  cat  and  dog  lay  dead  upon  the  hearthrug.  Her 
clothing  was  cut  into  strips.  Her  wedding-dress  was 
a  charred  heap  on  the  fireplace.  Her  jewellery  lay 
molten  with  it.  Her  portrait  had  been  torn  from  its 
frame. 

An  intolerable  fear  possessed  him.  Drops  of  sweat 
hung  on  his  forehead  and  his  hands.  He  fled  towards 
the  town.  He  bit  his  finger-nails  till  they  bled  as  he 
passed  the  house  in  the  pines.  He  lifted  his  arm  as 
if  the  flappings  of  The  Crimson  Flag  were  blows  in  his 
face. 

At  last  he  passed  Tom  Liffey's  hut.  He  saw  Pierre 
coming  from  it.  The  look  on  the  gambler's  face  was  one 
of  gloomy  wonder.  His  fingers  trembled  as  he  lighted 
a  cigarette,  and  that  was  an  unusual  thing.  The  form 
of  Heldon  edged  within  the  light.  Pierre  dropped  the 
match  and  said  to  him, — "You  are  looking  for  your 
wife?" 

Heldon  bowed  his  head.  The  other  threw  open  the 
door  of  the  hut.  "Come  in  here,"  he  said.  They 
entered.  Pierre  pointed  to  a  woman's  hat  on  the 
table.  "Do  you  know  that?"  he  asked,  huskily,  for 
he  was  moved.  But  Heldon  only  nodded  dazedly. 

Pierre  continued:  "I  was  to  have  met  Tom  LifFey 


246  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

here  to-night.  He  is  not  here.  You  hoped — I  suppose 
— to  see  your  wife  in  your — home.  She  is  not  there. 
He  left  a  word  on  paper  for  me.  I  have  torn  it  up. 
Writing  is  the  enemy  of  man.  But  I  know  where  he  is 
gone.  I  know  also  where  your  wife  has  gone." 

Heldon's  face  was  of  a  hateful  paleness.  .  .  .  They 
passed  out  into  the  night. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  Heldon  said. 

"To  God's  Playground,  if  we  can  get  there." 

"To  God's  Playground?  To  the  glacier-top?  You 
are  mad." 

"No,  but  he  and  she  were  mad.  Come  on."  Then 
he  whispered  something,  and  Heldon  gave  a  great  cry, 
and  they  plunged  into  the  woods. 

In  the  morning  the  people  of  Little  Goshen,  looking 
towards  the  glacier,  saw  a  flag  (they  knew  afterwards 
that  it  was  crimson)  flying  on  it.  Near  it  were  two 
human  figures.  A  miner,  looking  through  a  field-glass, 
said  that  one  figure  was  crouching  by  the  flag-staff,  and 
that  it  was  a  woman.  The  other  figure  near  was  a  man. 
As  the  morning  wore  on,  they  saw  upon  a  crag  of  ice 
below  the  sloping  glacier  two  men  looking  upwards 
towards  the  flag.  One  of  them  seemed  to  shriek  out, 
and  threw  up  his  hands,  and  made  as  if  to  rush  forward; 
but  the  other  drew  him  back. 

Heldon  knew  what  revenge  and  disgrace  may  be  at 
their  worst.  In  vain  he  tried  to  reach  God's  Playground. 
Only  one  man  knew  the  way,  and  he  was  dead  upon 
it — with  Heldon's  wife:  two  shameless  suicides.  .  .  . 
When  he  came  down  from  the  mountain  the  hair  upon 
his  face  was  white,  though  that  upon  his  head  remained 
black  as  it  had  always  been.  And  those  frozen  figures 
stayed  there  like  statues  with  that  other  crimson  flag: 
until,  one  day,  a  great-bodied  wind  swept  out  of  the 


THE  CRIMSON  FLAG  247 

north,  and,  in  pity,  carried  them  down  a  bottomless 
fissure. 

But  long  before  this  happened,  The  Woman  had  fled 
from  Little  Goshen  in  the  night,  and  her  house  was 
burned  to  the  ground. 


THE  FLOOD 


THE  FLOOD 

WENDLING  came  to  Fort  Anne  on  the  day  that  the  Rev- 
erend Ezra  Badgley  and  an  unknown  girl  were  buried. 
And  that  was  a  notable  thing.  The  man  had  been 
found  dead  at  his  evening  meal;  the  girl  had  died  on 
the  same  day;  and  they  were  buried  side  by  side.  This 
caused  much  scandal,  for  the  man  was  holy,  and  the 
girl,  as  many  women  said,  was  probably  evil  altogether. 
At  the  graves,  when  the  minister's  people  saw  what  was 
being  done,  they  piously  protested;  but  the  Factor,  to 
whom  Pierre  had  whispered  a  word,  answered  them 
gravely  that  the  matter  should  go  on:  since  none  knew 
but  the  woman  was  as  worthy  of  heaven  as  the  man. 
Wendling  chanced  to  stand  beside  Pretty  Pierre. 

"Who  knows!"  he  said  aloud,  looking  hard  at  the 
graves,  "who  knows!  .  .  .  She  died  before  him,  but 
the  dead  can  strike." 

Pierre  did  not  answer  immediately,  for  the  Factor 
was  calling  the  earth  down  on  both  coffins;  but  after 
a  moment  he  added:  "Yes,  the  dead  can  strike."  And 
then  the  eyes  of  the  two  men  caught  and  stayed,  and 
they  knew  that  they  had  things  to  say  to  each  other 
in  the  world. 

They  became  friends.  And  that,  perhaps,  was  not 
greatly  to  Wendling' s  credit;  for  in  the  eyes  of  many 
Pierre  was  an  outcast  as  an  outlaw.  Maybe  some  of 
the  women  disliked  this  friendship  most;  since  Wendling 
was  a  handsome  man,  and  Pierre  was  never  known  to 
seek  them,  good  or  bad;  and  they  blamed  him  for  the 
other's  coldness,  for  his  unconcerned  yet  respectful  eye. 

251 


252  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"There's  Nelly  Nolan  would  dance  after  him  to  the 
world's  end,"  said  Shon  McGann  to  Pierre  one  day; 
"and  the  Widdy  Jerome  herself,  wid  her  flamin'  cheeks 
and  the  wild  fun  in  her  eye,  croons  like  a  babe  at  the 
breast  as  he  slides  out  his  cash  on  the  bar;  and  over  on 
Gansonby's  Flat  there's — " 

"There's  many  a  fool,  roz'Zd,"  sharply  interjected 
Pierre,  as  he  pushed  the  needle  through  a  button  he 
was  sewing  on  his  coat. 

"Bedad,  there's  a  pair  of  fools  here,  anyway,  I  say; 
for  the  women  might  die  without  lift  at  waist  or  brush 
of  lip,  and  neither  of  ye'd  say,  'Here's  to  the  joy  of  us, 
goddess,  me  own ! ' ' 

Pierre  seemed  to  be  intently  watching  the  needle- 
point as  it  pierced  up  the  button-eye,  and  his  reply 
was  given  with  a  slowness  corresponding  to  the  sedate 
passage  of  the  needle.  "Wendling,  you  think,  cares 
nothing  for  women?  Well,  men  who  are  like  that  cared 
once  for  one  woman,  and  when  that  was  over —  But, 
pshaw!  I  will  not  talk.  You  are  no  thinker,  Shon  Mc- 
Gann. You  blunder  through  the  world.  And  you'll 
tremble  as  much  to  a  woman's  thumb  in  fifty  years  as 
now." 

"By  the  holy  smoke,"  said  Shon,  "though  I  trem- 
ble at  that,  maybe,  I'll  not  tremble,  as  Wendling,  at 
nothing  at  all."  Here  Pierre  looked  up  sharply,  then 
dropped  his  eyes  on  his  work  again.  Shon  lapsed 
suddenly  into  a  moodiness. 

"Yes,"  said  Pierre,  "as  Wendling,  at  nothing  at  all? 
Well?" 

"Well,  this,  Pierre,  for  you  that's  a  thinker  from  me 
that's  none.  I  was  walking  with  him  in  Red  Glen  yes- 
terday. Sudden  he  took  to  shiverin',  and  snatched 
me  by  the  arm,  and  a  mad  look  shot  out  of  his  hand- 


THE  FLOOD  253 

some  face.  'Hush!'  says  he.  I  listened.  There  was 
a  sound  like  the  hard  rattle  of  a  creek  over  stones,  and 
then  another  sound  behind  that.  'Come  quick/  says 
he,  the  sweat  standin'  thick  on  him;  and  he  ran  me 
up  the  bank — for  it  was  at  the  beginnin'  of  the  Glen 
where  the  sides  were  low — and  there  we  stood  pantin' 
and  starin'  flat  at  each  other.  'What's  that?  and  what's 
got  its  hand  on  ye?  for  y'  are  cold  as  death,  an'  pinched 
in  the  face,  an'  you've  bruised  my  arm,'  said  I.  And  he 
looked  round  him  slow  and  breathed  hard,  then  drew 
his  fingers  through  the  sweat  on  his  cheek.  'I'm  not 
well,  and  I  thought  I  heard — you  heard  it;  what  was 
it  like?'  said  he;  and  he  peered  close  at  me.  'Like 
water,'  said  I;  'a  little  creek  near,  and  a  flood  comin' 
far  off.'  'Yes,  just  that,'  said  he;  'it's  some  trick  of 
wind  in  the  place,  but  it  makes  a  man  foolish,  and  an 
inch  of  brandy  would  be  the  right  thing.'  I  didn't  say 
no  to  that.  And  on  we  came,  and  brandy  we  had  with 
a  wish  in  the  eye  of  Nelly  Nolan  that'd  warm  the  heart 
of  a  tomb.  .  .  .  And  there's  a  cud  for  your  chewin', 
Pierre.  Think  that  by  the  neck  and  the  tail,  and  the 
divil  absolve  ye." 

During  this,  Pierre  had  finished  with  the  button.  He 
had  drawn  on  his  coat  and  lifted  his  hat,  and  now 
lounged,  trying  the  point  of  the  needle  with  his  fore- 
finger. When  Shon  ended,  he  said  with  a  sidelong 
glance:  "But  what  did  you  think  of  all  that,  Shon?" 

"Think!  There  it  was!  What's  the  use  of  thinkin'? 
There's  many  a  trick  in  the  world  with  wind  or  with 
spirit,  as  I've  seen  often  enough  in  ould  Ireland,  and  it's 
not  to  be  guessed  by  me."  Here  his  voice  got  a  little 
lower  and  a  trifle  solemn.  "For,  Pierre,"  spoke  he, 
"there's  what's  more  than  life  or  death,  and  sorra  wan 
can  we  tell  what  it  is;  but  we'll  know  some  day  whin — " 


254  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"When  we've  taken  the  leap  at  the  Almighty  Ditch," 
said  Pierre,  with  a  grave  kind  of  lightness.  "Yes,  it 
is  all  strange.  But  even  the  Almighty  Ditch  is  worth 
the  doing:  nearly  everything  is  worth  the  doing;  being 
young,  growing  old,  fighting,  loving — when  youth  is  on 
—hating,  eating,  drinking,  working,  playing  big  games. 
All  is  worth  it  except  two  things." 

"And  what  are  they,  bedad?" 

"Thy  neighbour's  wife  and  murder.  Those  are  hor- 
rible. They  double  on  a  man  one  tune  or  another; 
always." 

Here,  as  in  curiosity,  Pierre  pierced  his  finger  with 
the  needle,  and  watched  the  blood  form  in  a  little  glob- 
ule. Looking  at  it  meditatively  and  sardonically,  he 
said:  "There  is  only  one  end  to  these.  Blood  for  blood 
is  a  great  matter;  and  I  used  to  wonder  if  it  would  not 
be  terrible  for  a  man  to  see  his  death  coming  on  him 
drop  by  drop,  like  that."  He  let  the  spot  of  blood  fall 
to  the  floor.  "But  now  I  know  that  there  is  a  pun- 
ishment worse  than  that  .  .  .  man  Dieu  !  worse  than 
that,"  he  added. 

Into  Shon's  face  a  strange  look  had  suddenly  come. 
"Yes,  there's  something  worse  than  that,  Pierre." 

"So,  Kent" 

Shon  made  the  sacred  gesture  of  his  creed.  "To 
be  punished  by  the  dead.  And  not  see  them — only 
hear  them."  And  his  eyes  steadied  firmly  to  the  other's. 

Pierre  was  about  to  reply,  but  there  came  the  sound 
of  footsteps  through  the  open  door,  and  presently  Wend- 
ling  entered  slowly.  He  was  pale  and  worn,  and  his 
eyes  looked  out  with  a  searching  anxiousness.  But  that 
did  not  render  him  less  comely.  He  had  always  dressed 
in  black  and  white,  and  this  now  added  to  the  easy 
and  yet  severe  refinement  of  his  person.  His  birth  and 


THE  FLOOD  255 

breeding  had  occurred  in  places  unfrequented  by  such 
as  Shon  and  Pierre;  but  plains  and  wild  life  level  all; 
and  men  are  friends  according  to  their  taste  and  will, 
and  by  no  other  law.  Hence  these  with  Wendling.  He 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  each  without  a  word.  The 
hand-shake  was  unusual;  he  had  little  demonstration 
ever.  Shon  looked  up  surprised,  but  responded.  Pierre 
followed  with  a  swift,  inquiring  look;  then,  in  the  suc- 
ceeding pause,  he  offered  cigarettes.  Wendling  took 
one;  and  all,  silent,  sat  down.  The  sun  streamed  in- 
temperately  through  the  doorway,  making  a  broad  rib- 
bon of  light  straight  across  the  floor  to  Wendling's  feet. 
After  lighting  his  cigarette,  he  looked  into  the  sunlight 
for  a  moment,  still  not  speaking.  Shon  meanwhile  had 
started  his  pipe,  and  now,  as  if  he  found  the  silence  awk- 
ward,— "It's  a  day  for  God's  country,  this,"  he  said: 
"to  make  man  a  Christian  for  little  or  much,  though  he 
play  with  the  Divil  betunewhiles."  Without  looking 
at  them,  Wendling  said,  in  a  low  voice:  "It  was  just 
such  a  day,  down  there  in  Quebec,  when  It  happened. 
You  could  hear  the  swill  of  the  river,  the  water  lick- 
ing the  piers,  and  the  saws  in  the  Big  Mill  and  the 
Little  Mill  as  they  marched  through  the  timber,  flash- 
ing their  teeth  like  bayonets.  It's  a  wonderful  sound 
on  a  hot,  clear  day — that  wild,  keen  singing  of  the 
saws,  like  the  cry  of  a  live  thing  fighting  and  con- 
quering. Up  from  the  fresh-cut  lumber  in  the  yards 
there  came  a  smell  like  the  juice  of  apples,  and  the 
sawdust,  as  you  thrust  your  hand  into  it,  was  as  cool 
and  soft  as  the  leaves  of  a  clove-flower  in  the  dew.  On 
these  days  the  town  was  always  still.  It  looked  sleep- 
ing, and  you  saw  the  heat  quivering  up  from  the 
wooden  walls  and  the  roofs  of  cedar  shingles  as  though 
the  houses  were  breathing." 


256,  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

Here  he  paused,  still  intent  on  the  shaking  sunshine. 
Then  he  turned  to  the  others  as  if  suddenly  aware  that 
he  had  been  talking  to  them.  Shon  was  about  to  speak, 
but  Pierre  threw  a  restraining  glance,  and,  instead,  they 
all  looked  through  the  doorway  and  beyond.  In  the 
settlement  below  they  saw  the  effect  that  Wendling 
had  described.  The  houses  breathed.  A  grasshopper 
went  clacking  past,  a  dog  at  the  door  snapped  up  a  fly; 
but  there  seemed  no  other  life  of  day.  Wendling  nodded 
his  head  towards  the  distance.  "It  was  quiet,  like  that. 
I  stood  and  watched  the  mills  and  the  yards,  and  listened 
to  the  saws,  and  looked  at  the  great  slide,  and  the  logs 
on  the  river:  and  I  said  ever  to  myself  that  it  was  all 
mine — all.  Then  I  turned  to  a  big  house  on  the  hillock 
beyond  the  cedars,  whose  windows  were  open,  with  a 
cool  dusk  lying  behind  them.  More  than  all  else,  I 
loved  to  think  I  owned  that  house  and  what  was  in  it. 
.  .  .  She  was  a  beautiful  woman.  And  she  used  to  sit 
in  a  room  facing  the  mill — though  the  house  fronted  an- 
other way — thinking  of  me,  I  did  not  doubt,  and  work- 
ing at  some  delicate  needle-stuff.  There  never  had  been 
a  sharp  word  between  us,  save  when  I  quarrelled  bitterly 
with  her  brother,  and  he  left  the  mill  and  went  away. 
But  she  got  over  that  mostly,  though  the  lad's  name  was 
never  mentioned  between  us.  That  day  I  was  so  hungry 
for  the  sight  of  her  that  I  got  my  field-glass — used  to 
watch  my  vessels  and  rafts  making  across  the  bay — and 
trained  it  on  the  window  where  I  knew  she  sat.  I  thought 
it  would  amuse  her,  too,  when  I  went  back  at  night,  if 
I  told  her  what  she  had  been  doing.  I  laughed  to  myself 
at  the  thought  of  it  as  I  adjusted  the  glass.  ...  I 
looked.  .  .  .  There  was  no  more  laughing.  ...  I  saw 
her,  and  in  front  of  her  a  man,  with  his  back  half  on  me. 
I  could  not  recognise  him,  though  at  the  instant  I 


THE  FLOOD  257 

thought  he  was  something  familiar.  I  failed  to  get  his 
face  at  all.  Hers  I  found  indistinctly.  But  I  saw  him 
catch  her  playfully  by  the  chin !  After  a  little  they  rose. 
He  put  his  arm  about  her  and  kissed  her,  and  he  ran  his 
fingers  through  her  hair.  She  had  such  fine  golden 
hair — so  light,  and  it  lifted  to  every  breath.  Some- 
thing got  into  my  brain.  I  know  now  it  was  the  maggot 
which  sent  Othello  mad.  The  world  in  that  hour  was 
malicious,  awful.  .  .  . 

"After  a  time — it  seemed  ages,  she  and  everything 
had  receded  so  far — I  went  .  .  .  home.  At  the  door  I 
asked  the  servant  who  had  been  there.  She  hesitated, 
confused,  and  then  said  the  young  curate  of  the  parish. 
I  was  very  cool:  for  madness  is  a  strange  thing;  you 
see  everything  with  an  intense  aching  clearness — that  is 
the  trouble.  .  .  .  She  was  more  kind  than  common.  I 
do  not  think  I  was  unusual.  I  was  playing  a  part  well, 
my  grandmother  had  Indian  blood  like  yours,  Pierre, — 
and  I  was  waiting.  I  was  even  nicely  critical  of  her  to 
myself.  I  balanced  the  mole  on  her  neck  against  her 
general  beauty;  the  curve  of  her  instep,  I  decided,  was 
a  little  too  emphatic.  I  passed  her  backwards  and  for- 
wards, weighing  her  at  every  point;  but  yet  these  two 
things  were  the  only  imperfections.  I  pronounced  her 
an  exceeding,  piece  of  art — and  infamy.  I  was  much 
interested  to  see  how  she  could  appear  perfect  in  her 
soul.  I  encouraged  her  to  talk.  I  saw  with  devilish 
irony  that  an  angel  spoke.  And,  to  cap  it  all,  she 
assumed  the  fascinating  air  of  the  mediator — for  her 
brother;  seeking  a  reconciliation  between  us.  Her  amaz- 
ing art  of  person  and  mind  so  worked  upon  me  that 
it  became  unendurable;  it  was  so  exquisite — and  so 
shameless.  I  was  sitting  where  the  priest  had  sat  that 
afternoon;  and  when  she  leaned  towards  me  I  caught 


258  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

her  chin  lightly  and  trailed  my  fingers  through  her  hair 
as  he  had  done:  and  that  ended  it,  for  I  was  cold,  and 
my  heart  worked  with  horrible  slowness.  Just  as  a 
wave  poises  at  its  height  before  breaking  upon  the 
shore,  it  hung  at  every  pulse-beat,  and  then  seemed  to 
fall  over  with  a  sickening  thud.  I  arose,  and  acting  still, 
spoke  impatiently  of  her  brother.  Tears  sprang  to  her 
eyes.  Such  divine  dissimulation,  I  thought — too  good 
for  earth.  She  turned  to  leave  the  room,  and  I  did  not 
stay  her.  Yet  we  were  together  again  that  night.  .  .  . 
I  was  only  waiting." 

The  cigarette  had  dropped  from  his  fingers  to  the 
floor,  and  lay  there  smoking.  Shon's  face  was  fixed 
with  anxiety;  Pierre's  eyes  played  gravely  with  the 
sunshine.  Wendling  drew  a  heavy  breath,  and  then 
went  on. 

"Again,  next  day,  it  was  like  this — the  world  drain- 
ing the  heat.  ...  I  watched  from  the  Big  Mill.  I  saw 
them  again.  He  leaned  over  her  chair  and  buried  his 
face  in  her  hair.  The  proof  was  absolute  now.  ...  I 
started  away,  going  a  roundabout,  that  I  might  not  be 
seen.  It  took  me  some  time.  I  was  passing  through  a 
clump  of  cedar  when  I  saw  them  making  towards  the 
trees  skirting  the  river.  Their  backs  were  on  me. 
Suddenly  they  diverted  their  steps  towards  the  great 
slide,  shut  off  from  water  this  last  few  months,  and 
used  as  a  quarry  to  deepen  it.  Some  petrified  things 
had  been  found  in  the  rocks,  but  I  did  not  think  they 
were  going  to  these.  I  saw  them  climb  down  the  rocky 
steps;  and  presently  they  were  lost  to  view.  The  gates 
of  the  slide  could  be  opened  by  machinery  from  the 
Little  Mill.  A  terrible,  deliciously  malignant  thought 
came  to  me.  I  remember  how  the  sunlight  crept  away 
from  me  and  left  me  in  the  dark.  I  stole  through  that 


THE  FLOOD  259 

darkness  to  the  Little  Mill.  I  went  to  the  machinery 
for  opening  the  gates.  Very  gently  I  set  it  hi  motion, 
facing  the  slide  as  I  did  so.  I  could  see  it  through  the 
open  sides  of  the  mill.  I  smiled  to  think  what  the  tiny 
creek,  always  creeping  through  a  faint  leak  in  the  gates 
and  falling  with  a  granite  rattle  on  the  stones,  would 
now  become.  I  pushed  the  lever  harder — harder.  I 
saw  the  gates  suddenly  give,  then  fly  open,  and  the 
river  sprang  roaring  massively  through  them.  I  heard 
a  shriek  through  the  roar.  I  shuddered;  and  a  horrible 
sickness  came  on  me.  .  .  .  And  as  I  turned  from  the 
machinery,  I  saw  the  young  priest  coming  at  me  through 
a  doorway!  .  .  .  It  was  not  the  priest  and  my  wife  that 
I  had  killed;  but  my  wife  and  her  brother.  ..." 

He  threw  his  head  back  as  though  something  clamped 
his  throat.  His  voice  roughened  with  misery.  "The 
young  priest  buried  them  both,  and  people  did  not 
know  the  truth.  They  were  even  sorry  for  me.  But 
I  gave  up  the  mills — all;  and  I  became  homeless  .  .  . 
this." 

Now  he  looked  up  at  the  two  men,  and  said:  "I 
have  told  you  because  you  know  something,  and  because 
there  will,  I  think,  be  an  end  soon."  He  got  up  and 
reached  out  a  trembling  hand  for  a  cigarette.  Pierre 
gave  him  one.  "Will  you  walk  with  me?"  he  asked. 

Shon  shook  his  head.  "God  forgive  you, "  he  replied, 
"I  can't  do  it." 

But  Wendling  and  Pierre  left  the  hut  together.  They 
walked  for  an  hour,  scarcely  speaking,  and  not  consid- 
ering where  they  went.  At  last  Pierre  mechanically 
turned  to  go  down  into  Red  Glen.  Wendling  stopped 
short,  then,  with  a  sighing  laugh,  strode  on.  "Shon 
has  told  you  what  happened  here?"  he  said. 

Pierre  nodded. 


260  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"And  you  know  what  came  once  when  you  walked 
with  me.  .  .  .  The  dead  can  strike,"  he  added. 

Pierre  sought  his  eye.  "The  minister  and  the  girl 
buried  together  that  day,"  he  said,  "were — " 

He  stopped,  for  behind  him  he  heard  the  sharp,  cold 
trickle  of  water.  Silent  they  walked  on.  It  followed 
them.  They  could  not  get  out  of  the  Glen  now  until 
they  had  compassed  its  length — the  walls  were  high. 
The  sound  grew.  The  men  faced  each  other. 

"Good-bye,"  said  Wendling;  and  he  reached  out  his 
hand  swiftly.  But  Pierre  heard  a  mighty  flood  groan- 
ing on  them,  and  he  blinded  as  he  stretched  his  arm 
in  response.  He  caught  at  Wendling's  shoulder,  but 
felt  him  lifted  and  carried  away,  while  he  himself  stood 
still  in  a  screeching  wind  and  heard  impalpable  water 
rushing  over  him.  In  a  minute  it  was  gone;  and  he 
stood  alone  in  Red  Glen. 

He  gathered  himself  up  and  ran.  Far  down,  where 
the  Glen  opened  to  the  plain,  he  found  Wendling.  The 
hands  were  wrinkled;  the  face  was  cold;  the  body  was 
wet:  the  man  was  drowned  and  dead. 


IN  PIPI  VALLEY 


IN  PIPI  VALLEY 

"DrviLS  me  darlins,  it's  a  memory  I  have  of  a  time 
whin  luck  wasn't  foldin'  her  arms  round  me,  and  not 
so  far  back  aither,  and  I  on  the  wallaby  track  hot-foot 
for  the  City  o'  Gold." 

Shon  McGann  said  this  in  the  course  of  a  discussion 
on  the  prosperity  of  Pipi  Valley.  Pretty  Pierre  re- 
marked nonchalantly  in  reply, — "The  wallaby  track 
— eh — what  is  that,  Shon?" 

"It's  a  bit  of  a  hay  then  y'  are,  Pierre.  The  wallaby 
track?  That's  the  name  in  Australia  for  trampin'  west 
through  the  plains  of  the  Never  Never  Country  lookin' 
for  the  luck  o'  the  world;  as,  bedad,  it's  meself  that 
knows  it,  and  no  other,  and  not  by  book  or  tellin'  either, 
but  with  the  grip  of  thirst  at  me  throat  and  a  reef  in 
me  belt  every  hour  to  quiet  the  gnawin'."  And  Shon 
proceeded  to  light  his  pipe  afresh. 

"But  the  City  o'  Gold — was  there  much  wealth  for 
you  there,  Shon?" 

Shon  laughed,  and  said  between  the  puffs  of  smoke, — 
"Wealth  for  me,  is  it?  Oh,  mother  o'  Moses!  wealth 
of  work  and  the  pride  of  livin'  in  the  heart  of  us,  and 
the  grip  of  an  honest  hand  betunewhiles;  and  what 
more  do  y'  want,  Pierre?" 

The  Frenchman's  drooping  eyelids  closed  a  little 
more,  and  he  replied,  meditatively:  "Money?  No, 
that  is  not  Shon  McGann.  The  good  fellowship  of 
thirst? — yes,  a  little.  The  grip  of  the  honest  hand, 
quite,  and  the  clinch  of  an  honest  waist?  Well,  peut-etre. 

263 


264  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

Of  the  waist  which  is  not  honest? — tsh!  he  is  gay — 
and  so!" 

The  Irishman  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and 
held  it  poised  before  him.  He  looked  inquiringly  and 
a  little  frowningly  at  the  other  for  a  moment,  as  if 
doubtful  whether  to  resent  the  sneer  that  accompanied 
the  words  just  spoken;  but  at  last  he  good-humouredly 
said:  "Blood  o'  me  bones,  but  it's  much  I  fear  the 
honest  waist  hasn't  always  been  me  portion — Heaven 
forgive  me!" 

"Nom  de  pipe,  this  Irishman!"  replied  Pierre.  "He 
is  gay;  of  good  heart;  he  smiles,  and  the  women  are 
at  his  heels;  he  laughs,  and  they  are  on  their  knees — 
Such  a  fool  he  is!" 

Still  Shon  McGann  laughed. 

"A  fool  I  am,  Pierre,  or  I'd  be  hi  ould  Ireland  at  this 
minute,  with  a  roof  o'  me  own  over  me  and  the  friends 
o'  me  youth  round  me,  and  brats  on  me  knee,  and  the 
fear  o'  God  in  me  heart." 

"Mais,  Shon,"  mockingly  rejoined  the  Frenchman, 
"this  is  not  Ireland,  but  there  is  much  like  that  to  be 
done  here.  There  is  a  roof,  and  there  is  that  woman  at 
Ward's  Mistake,  and  the  brats — eh,  by  and  by?" 

Shon's  face  clouded.  He  hesitated,  then  replied 
sharply:  "That  woman,  do  y'  say,  Pierre,  she  that 
nursed  me  when  the  Honourable  and  meself  were  taken 
out  o'  Sandy  Drift,  more  dead  than  livin';  she  that 
brought  me  back  to  life  as  good  as  ever,  barrin'  this 
scar  on  me  forehead  and  a  stiffness  at  me  elbow,  and 
the  Honourable  as  right  as  the  sun,  more  luck  to  him! 
— which  he  doesn't  need  at  all,  with  the  wind  of  for- 
tune in  his  back  and  shiftin'  neither  to  right  nor  left. 
— That  woman!  faith,  y'd  better  not  cut  the  words  so 
sharp  betune  yer  teeth,  Pierre." 


IN  PIPI  VALLEY  265 

"But  I  will  say  more — a  little — just  the  same.  She 
nursed  you — well,  that  is  good;  but  it  is  good  also,  I 
think,  you  pay  her  for  that,  and  stop  the  rest.  Women 
are  fools,  or  else  they  are  worse.  This  one?  She  is 
worse.  Yes;  you  will  take  my  advice,  Shon  McGann." 

The  Irishman  came  to  his  feet  with  a  spring,  and  his 
words  were  angry. 

"It  doesn't  come  well  from  Pretty  Pierre,  the  gam- 
bler, to  be  revilin'  a  woman;  and  I  throw  it  in  y'r  face, 
though  I've  slept  under  the  same  blanket  with  ye,  an' 
drunk  out  of  the  same  cup  on  manny  a  tramp,  that  you 
lie  dirty  and  black  when  ye  spake  ill — of  my  wife." 

This  conversation  had  occurred  hi  a  quiet  corner  of 
the  bar-room  of  the  Saints'  Repose.  The  first  few  sen- 
tences had  not  been  heard  by  the  others  present;  but 
Shon's  last  speech,  delivered  in  a  ringing  tone,  drew 
the  miners  to  their  feet,  in  expectation  of  seeing  shots 
exchanged  at  once.  The  code  required  satisfaction,  im- 
mediate and  decisive.  Shon  was  not  armed,  and  some 
one  thrust  a  pistol  towards  him;  but  he  did  not  take  it. 
Pierre  rose,  and  coming  slowly  to  him,  laid  a  slender 
finger  on  his  chest,  and  said : 

"So!  I  did  not  know  that  she  was  your  wife.  That  is 
a  surprise." 

The  miners  nodded  assent.    He  continued : 

"Lucy  Rives  your  wife!  Hola,  Shon  McGann,  that 
is  such  a  joke." 

"It's  no  joke,  but  God's  truth,  and  the  lie  is  with 
you,  Pierre." 

Murmurs  of  anticipation  ran  round  the  room;  but 
the  half-breed  said:  "There  will  be  satisfaction  alto- 
gether; but  it  is  my  whim  to  prove  what  I  say  first; 
then" — fondling  his  revolver — "then  we  shall  settle. 
But,  see :  you  will  meet  me  here  at  ten  o'clock  to-night, 


266  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

and  I  will  make  it,  I  swear  to  you,  so  clear,  that  the 
woman  is  vile." 

The  Irishman  suddenly  clutched  the  gambler,  shook 
him  like  a  dog,  and  threw  him  against  the  farther  wall. 
Pierre's  pistol  was  levelled  from  the  instant  Shon 
moved;  but  he  did  not  use  it.  He  rose  on  one  knee  after 
the  violent  fall,  and  pointing  it  at  the  other's  head, 
said  coolly:  "I  could  kill  you,  my  friend,  so  easy!  But 
it  is  not  my  whim.  Till  ten  o'clock  is  not  long  to  wait, 
and  then,  just  here,  one  of  us  shall  die.  Is  it  not  so?" 

The  Irishman  did  not  flinch  before  the  pistol.  He 
said  with  low  fierceness,  "At  ten  o'clock,  or  now,  or 
any  time,  or  at  any  place,  y'll  find  me  ready  to  break 
the  back  of  the  lies  y've  spoken,  or  be  broken  meself. 
Lucy  Rives  is  my  wife,  and  she's  true  and  straight  as  the 
sun  in  the  sky.  I'll  be  here  at  ten  o'clock,  and  as  ye 
say,  Pierre,  one  of  us  makes  the  long  reckoning  for  this." 
And  he  opened  the  door  and  went  out. 

The  half-breed  moved  to  the  bar,  and,  throwing 
down  a  handful  of  silver,  said:  "It  is  good  we  drink 
after  so  much  heat.  Come  on,  come  on,  comrades." 

The  miners  responded  to  the  invitation.  Their  sym- 
pathy was  mostly  with  Shon  McGann;  their  admiration 
was  about  equally  divided;  for  Pretty  Pierre  had  the 
quality  of  courage  in  as  active  a  degree  as  the  Irishman, 
and  they  knew  that  some  extraordinary  motive,  prom- 
ising greater  excitement,  was  behind  the  Frenchman's 
refusal  to  send  a  bullet  through  Shon's  head  a  moment 
before. 

King  Kinkley,  the  best  shot  in  the  Valley  next  to 
Pierre,  had  watched  the  unusual  development  of  the  in- 
cident with  interest;  and  when  his  glass  had  been  filled 
he  said,  thoughtfully:  "This  thing  isn't  according  to 
Hoyle.  There's  never  been  any  trouble  just  like  it  in 


IN  PIPI  VALLEY  267 

the  Valley  before.  What's  that  McGann  said  about 
the  lady  being  his  wife?  If  it's  the  case,  where  hey 
we  been  in  the  show?  Where  was  we  when  the  license 
was  around?  It  isn't  good  citizenship,  and  I  hev  my 
doubts." 

Another  miner,  known  as  the  Presbyterian,  added: 
"There's  some  skulduggery  in  it,  I  guess.  The  lady  has 
had  as  much  protection  as  if  she  was  the  sister  of  every 
citizen  of  the  place,  just  as  much  as  Lady  Jane  here 
(Lady  Jane,  the  daughter  of  the  proprietor  of  the  Saints' 
Repose,  administered  drinks),  and  she's  played  this 
stacked  hand  on  us,  has  gone  one  better  on  the  sly." 

"Pierre,"  said  King  Kinkley,  "you're  on  the  track 
of  the  secret,  and  appear  to  hev  the  advantage  of  the 
lady:  blaze  it — blaze  it  out." 

Pierre  rejoined,  "I  know  something;  but  it  is  good 
we  wait  until  ten  o'clock.  Then  I  will  show  you  all  the 
cards  in  the  pack.  Yes,  so,  Men  sur." 

And  though  there  was  some  grumbling,  Pierre  had 
his  way.  The  spirit  of  adventure  and  mutual  interest 
had  thrown  the  French  half-breed,  the  Irishman,  and 
the  Hon.  Just  Trafford  together  on  the  cold  side  of  the 
Canadian  Rockies;  and  they  had  journeyed  to  this 
other  side,  where  the  warm  breath  from  the  Pacific 
passed  to  its  congealing  in  the  ranges.  They  had  come 
to  the  Pipi  field  when  it  was  languishing.  From  the 
moment  of  their  coming  its  luck  changed;  it  became 
prosperous.  They  conquered  the  Valley  each  after  his 
kind.  The  Honourable — he  was  always  called  that — 
mastered  its  resources  by  a  series  of  "great  lucks,"  as 
Pierre  termed  it,  had  achieved  a  fortune,  and  made  no 
enemies;  and  but  two  months  before  the  day  whose 
incidents  are  here  recorded,  had  gone  to  the  coast  on 
business.  Shon  had  won  the  reputation  of  being  a 


268  PIERRE  AND   HIS  PEOPLE 

"  white  man,"  to  say  nothing  of  his  victories  in  the  region 
of  gallantry.  He  made  no  wealth;  he  only  got  that  he 
might  spend.  Irishman-like  he  would  barter  the  chances 
of  fortune  for  the  lilt  of  a  voice  or  the  clatter  of  a  pretty 
foot. 

Pierre  was  different.  "Women,  ah,  no!"  he  would 
say,  "they  make  men  fools  or  devils." 

His  temptation  lay  not  that  way.  When  the  three 
first  came  to  the  Pipi,  Pierre  was  a  miner,  simply;  but 
nearly  all  his  life  he  had  been  something  else,  as  many 
a  devastated  pocket  on  the  east  of  the  Rockies  could 
bear  witness;  and  his  new  career  was  alien  to  his  soul. 
Temptation  grew  greatly  on  him  at  the  Pipi,  and  in 
the  days  before  he  yielded  to  it  he  might  have  been 
seen  at  midnight  in  his  hut  playing  solitaire.  Why  he 
abstained  at  first  from  practising  his  real  profession  is 
accounted  for  in  two  ways:  he  had  tasted  some  of  the 
sweets  of  honest  companionship  with  the  Honourable 
and  Shon,  and  then  he  had  a  memory  of  an  ugly  night 
at  Pardon's  Drive  a  year  before,  when  he  stood  over  his 
own  brother's  body,  shot  to  death  by  accident  in  a 
gambling  row  having  its  origin  with  himself.  These 
things  had  held  him  back  for  a  time;  but  he  was  weaker 
than  his  ruling  passion. 

The  Pipi  was  a  young  and  comparatively  virgin  field; 
the  quarry  was  at  his  hand.  He  did  not  love  money 
for  its  own  sake;  it  was  the  game  that  enthralled  him. 
He  would  have  played  his  life  against  the  treasury  of  a 
kingdom,  and,  winning  it  with  loaded  double  sixes,  have 
handed  back  the  spoil  as  an  unredeemable  national  debt. 

He  fell  at  last,  and  in  falling  conquered  the  Pipi 
Valley;  at  the  same  time  he  was  considered  a  fearless 
and  liberal  citizen,  who  could  shoot  as  straight  as  he 
played  well.  He  made  an  excursion  to  another  field, 


IN  PIPI  VALLEY  269 

however,  at  an  opportune  time,  and  it  was  during  this 
interval  that  the  accident  to  Shon  and  the  Honourable 
had  happened.  He  returned  but  a  few  hours  before  this 
quarrel  with  Shon  occurred,  and  in  the  Saints'  Repose, 
whither  he  had  at  once  gone,  he  was  told  of  the  accident. 
While  his  informant  related  the  incident  and  the  ro- 
mantic sequence  of  Shon's  infatuation,  the  woman 
passed  the  tavern  and  was  pointed  out  to  Pierre.  The 
half-breed  had  not  much  excitableness  in  his  nature, 
but  when  he  saw  this  beautiful  woman  with  a  touch  of 
the  Indian  in  her  contour,  his  pale  face  flushed,  and  he 
showed  his  set  teeth  under  his  slight  moustache.  He 
watched  her  until  she  entered  a  shop,  on  the  signboard 
of  which  was  written — written  since  he  had  left  a  few 
months  ago — Lucy  Rives,  Tobacconist. 

Shon  had  then  entered  the  Saints'  Repose;  and  we 
know  the  rest.  A  couple  of  hours  after  this  nervous 
episode,  Pierre  might  have  been  seen  standing  in  the 
shadow  of  the  pines  not  far  from  the  house  at  Ward's 
Mistake,  where,  he  had  been  told,  Lucy  Rives  lived 
with  an  old  Indian  woman.  He  stood,  scarcely  moving, 
and  smoking  cigarettes,  until  the  door  opened.  Shon 
came  out  and  walked  down  the  hillside  to  the  town. 
Then  Pierre  went  to  the  door,  and  without  knocking, 
opened  it,  and  entered.  A  woman  started  up  from  a 
seat  where  she  was  sewing,  and  turned  towards  him. 
As  she  did  so,  the  work,  Shon's  coat,  dropped  from  her 
hands,  her  face  paled,  and  her  eyes  grew  big  with  fear. 
She  leaned  against  a  chair  for  support — this  man's  pres- 
ence had  weakened  her  so.  She  stood  silent,  save  for 
a  slight  moan  that  broke  from  her  lips,  as  Pierre 
lighted  a  cigarette  coolly,  and  then  said  to  an  old  Indian 
woman  who  sat  upon  the  floor  braiding  a  basket:  "Get 
up,  Ikni,  and  go  away." 


270  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

Ikni  rose,  came  over,  and  peered  into  the  face  of  the 
half-breed.  Then  she  muttered :  "  I  know  you — I  know 
you.  The  dead  has  come  back  again."  She  caught  his 
arm  with  her  bony  fingers  as  if  to  satisfy  herself  that  he 
was  flesh  and  blood,  and  shaking  her  head  dolefully, 
went  from  the  room.  When  the  door  closed  behind  her 
there  was  silence,  broken  only  by  an  exclamation  from 
the  man. 

The  other  drew  her  hand  across  her  eyes,  and  dropped 
it  with  a  motion  of  despair.  Then  Pierre  said,  sharply: 
"Bien?" 

" Franc. ois,"  she  replied,  "you  are  alive!" 

"Yes,  I  am  alive,  Lucy." 

She  shuddered,  then  grew  still  again  and  whispered: 

"Why  did  you  let  it  be  thought  that  you  were 
drowned?  Why?  Oh,  why?"  she  moaned. 

He  raised  his  eyebrows  slightly,  and  between  the 
puffs  of  smoke,  said: 

"Ah  yes,  my  Lucy,  why?  It  was  so  long  ago.  Let 
me  see:  so — so — ten  years.  Ten  years  is  a  long  tune 
to  remember,  eh?" 

He  came  towards  her.  She  drew  back;  but  her  hand 
remained  on  the  chair.  He  touched  the  plain  gold  ring 
on  her  finger,  and  said : 

"You  still  wear  it.  To  think  of  that — so  loyal  for 
a  woman!  How  she  remembers, — holy  Mother!  .  .  . 
But  shall  I  not  kiss  you,  yes,  just  once  after  eight  years 
— my  wife?" 

She  breathed  hard  and  drew  back  against  the  wall, 
dazed  and  frightened,  and  said: 

"No,  no,  do  not  come  near  me;  do  not  speak  to  me 
— ah,  please,  stand  back,  for  a  moment — please!" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly,  and  continued, 
with  mock  tenderness: 


IN  PIPI  VALLEY  271 

"To  think  that  things  come  round  so!  And  here 
you  have  a  home.  But  that  is  good.  I  am  tired  of  much 
travel  and  life  all  alone.  The  prodigal  goes  not  to  the 
home,  the  home  comes  to  the  prodigal."  He  stretched 
up  his  arms  as  if  with  a  feeling  of  content. 

"Do  you — do  you  not  know,"  she  said,  "that — 
that—" 

He  interrupted  her: 

"Do  I  not  know,  Lucy,  that  this  is  your  home?  Yes. 
But  is  it  not  all  the  same?  I  gave  you  a  home  ten  years 
ago — to  think,  ten  years  ago!  We  quarrelled  one  night, 
and  I  left  you.  Next  morning  my  boat  was  found  below 
the  White  Cascade — yes,  but  that  was  so  stale  a  trick! 
It  was  not  worthy  of  Francois  Rives.  He  would  do  it 
so  much  better  now;  but  he  was  young  then;  just  a 
boy,  and  foolish.  Well,  sit  down,  Lucy,  it  is  a  long  story, 
and  you  have  much  to  tell,  how  much — who  knows?" 

She  came  slowly  forward  and  said  with  a  painful 
effort : 

"You  did  a  great  wrong,  Francois.  You  have  killed 
me." 

"Killed  you,  Lucy,  my  wife!  Pardon!  Never  in 
those  days  did  you  look  so  charming  as  now — never. 
But  the  great  surprise  of  seeing  your  husband,  it  has 
made  you  shy,  quite  shy.  There  will  be  much  time  now 
for  you  to  change  all  that.  It  is  quite  pleasant  to  think 
on,  Lucy.  .  .  .  You  remember  the  song  we  used  to  sing 
on  the  Chaudiere  at  St.  Antoine?  See,  I  have  not  for- 
gotten it — 

" '  Nos  amants  sont  en  guerre, 
Vole,  mon  coeur,  vole.' " 

He  hummed  the  lines  over  and  over,  watching  through 
his  half-shut  eyes  the  torture  he  was  inflicting. 


272  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"Oh,  Mother  of  God,"  she  whispered,  "have  mercy! 
Can  you  not  see,  do  you  not  know?  I  am  not  as  you 
left  me." 

"Yes,  my  wife,  you  are  just  the  same;  not  an  hour 
older.  I  am  glad  that  you  have  come  to  me.  But  how 
they  will  envy  Pretty  Pierre!" 

"Envy — Pretty — Pierre,"  she  repeated,  in  distress; 
"are  you  Pretty  Pierre?  Ah,  I  might  have  known,  I 
might  have  known!" 

"Yes,  and  so !  Is  not  Pretty  Pierre  as  good  a  name  as 
Frangois  Rives?  Is  it  not  as  good  as  Shon  McGann?" 

"Oh,  I  see  it  all,  I  see  it  all  now!"  she  said  mourn- 
fully. "It  was  with  you  he  quarrelled,  and  about  me. 
He  would  not  tell  me  what  it  was.  You  know,  then, 
that  I  am — that  I  am  married — to  him?" 

" Quite.  I  know  all  that;  but  it  is  no  marriage."  He 
rose  to  his  feet  slowly,  dropping  the  cigarette  from  his 
lips  as  he  did  so.  "Yes,"  he  continued,  "and  I  know 
that  you  prefer  Shon  McGann  to  Pretty  Pierre." 

She  spread  out  her  hands  appealingly. 

"But  you  are  my  wife,  not  his.  Listen :  do  you  know 
what  I  shall  do?  I  will  tell  you  in  two  hours.  It  is  now 
eight  o'clock.  At  ten  o'clock  Shon  McGann  will  meet 
me  at  the  Saints'  Repose.  Then  you  shall  know.  .  .  . 
Ah,  it  is  a  pity!  Shon  was  my  good  friend,  but  this 
spoils  all  that.  Wine — it  has  danger;  cards — there  is 
peril  in  that  sport;  women — they  make  trouble  most 
of  all." 

"0  God,"  she  piteously  said,  "what  did  I  do?  There 
was  no  sin  hi  me.  I  was  your  faithful  wife,  though  you 
were  cruel  to  me.  You  left  me,  cheated  me,  brought 
this  upon  me.  It  is  you  that  has  done  this  wickedness, 
not  I."  She  buried  her  face  hi  her  hands,  falling  on  her 
knees  beside  the  chair. 


IN  PIPI  VALLEY  273 

He  bent  above  her:  "You  loved  the  young  avocat 
better,  eight  years  ago." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet.  "Ah,  now  I  understand," 
she  said.  ' '  That  was  why  you  quarrelled  with  me ;  why 
you  deserted  me.  You  were  not  man  enough  to  say 
what  made  you  so  much  the — so  wicked  and  hard,  so —  " 

"Be  thankful,  Lucy,  that  I  did  not  kill  you  then," 
he  interjected. 

"But  it  is  a  lie,"  she  cried;  "a  lie!" 

She  went  to  the  door  and  called  the  Indian  woman. 

" Ikni,"  she  said.  "He  dares  to  say  evil  of  Andre"  and 
me.  Think— of  Andr6!" 

Ikni  came  to  him,  put  her  wrinkled  face  close  to  his, 
and  said:  "She  was  yours,  only  yours;  but  the  spirits 
gave  you  a  devil.  Andre",  oh,  oh,  Andre"!  The  father  of 
Andre"  was  her  father — ah,  that  makes  your  sulky  eyes 
to  open.  Ikni  knows  how  to  speak.  Ikni  nursed  them 
both.  If  you  had  waited  you  should  have  known.  But 
you  ran  away  like  a  wolf  from  a  coal  of  fire;  you 
shammed  death  like  a  fox;  you  come  back  like  the 
snake  to  crawl  into  the  house  and  strike  with  poison 
tooth,  when  you  should  be  with  the  worms  in  the 
ground.  But  Ikni  knows — you  shall  be  struck  with 
poison  too,  the  Spirit  of  the  Red  Knife  waits  for  you. 
Andre"  was  her  brother." 

He  pushed  her  aside  savagely:  "Be  still!"  he  said. 
"Get  out — quick.  Sacre — quick!" 

When  they  were  alone  again  he  continued  with  no 
anger  in  his  tone:  "  So,  Andre"  the  avocat  and  you — that, 
eh?  Well,  you  see  how  much  trouble  has  come;  and 
now  this  other — a  secret  too.  When  were  you  married 
toShonMcGann?" 

'Last  night,"  she  bitterly  replied;  "a  priest  came 
over  from  the  Indian  village." 


274  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"Last  night/'  he  musingly  repeated.  "Last  night  I 
lost  two  thousand  dollars  at  the  Little  Goshen  field.  I 
did  not  play  well  last  night;  I  was  nervous.  In  ten 
years  I  had  not  lost  so  much  at  one  game  as  I  did  last 
night.  It  was  a  punishment  for  playing  too  honest,  or 
something;  eh,  what  do  you  think,  Lucy — or  some- 
thing, hein?" 

She  said  nothing,  but  rocked  her  body  to  and  fro. 

"Why  did  you  not  make  known  the  marriage  with 
Shon?" 

"He  was  to  have  told  it  to-night,"  she  said. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  then  a  thought 
flashed  into  his  eyes,  and  he  rejoined  with  a  jarring 
laugh,  "Well,  I  will  play  a  game  to-night,  Lucy  Rives; 
such  a  game  that  Pretty  Pierre  will  never  be  forgotten 
in  the  Pipi  Valley — a  beautiful  game,  just  for  two.  And 
the  other  who  will  play — the  wife  of  Frangois  Rives 
shall  see  if  she  will  wait;  but  she  must  be  patient,  more 
patient  than  her  husband  was  ten  years  ago." 

"What  will  you  do — tell  me,  what  will  you  do?" 

"I  will  play  a  game  of  cards — just  one  magnificent 
game;  and  the  cards  shall  settle  it.  All  shall  be  quite 
fair,  as  when  you  and  I  played  in  the  little  house  by  the 
Chaudiere — at  first,  Lucy, — before  I  was  a  devil." 

Was  this  peculiar  softness  to  his  last  tones  assumed 
or  real?  She  looked  at  him  inquiringly;  but  he  moved 
away  to  the  window,  and  stood  gazing  down  the  hill- 
side towards  the  town  below.  His  eyes  smarted. 

"I  will  die,"  she  said  to  herself  in  whispers — "I  will 
die."  A  minute  passed,  and  then  Pierre  turned  and 
said  to  her:  "Lucy,  he  is  coming  up  the  hill.  Listen. 
If  you  tell  him  that  I  have  seen  you,  I  will  shoot  him  on 
sight,  dead.  You  would  save  him,  for  a  little,  for  an 
hour  or  two — or  more?  Well,  do  as  I  say;  for  these 


IN  PIPI  VALLEY  275 

things  must  be  according  to  the  rules  of  the  game,  and 
I  myself  will  tell  him  all  at  the  Saints'  Repose.  He  gave 
me  the  lie  there,  and  I  will  tell  him  the  truth  before 
them  all  there.  Will  you  do  as  I  say?" 

She  hesitated  an  instant,  and  then  replied:  "I  will 
not  tell  him." 

"There  is  only  one  way,  then,"  he  continued.  "You 
must  go  at  once  from  here  into  the  woods  behind  there, 
and  not  see  him  at  all.  Then  at  ten  o'clock  you  will 
come  to  the  Saints'  Repose,  if  you  choose,  to  know  how 
the  game  has  ended." 

She  was  trembling,  moaning,  no  longer.  A  set  look 
had  come  into  her  face;  her  eyes  were  steady  and  hard. 
She  quietly  replied:  "Yes,  I  shall  be  there." 

He  came  to  her,  took  her  hand,  and  drew  from  her 
finger  the  wedding-ring  which  last  night  Shon  McGann 
had  placed  there.  She  submitted  passively.  Then, 
with  an  upward  wave  of  his  fingers,  he  spoke  in  a  mock- 
ing lightness,  but  without  any  of  the  malice  which  had 
first  appeared  in  his  tones,  words  from  an  old  French 
song: 

"  I  say  no  more,  my  lady — 
Mironton,  Mironton,  Mirontaine! 
I  say  no  more,  my  lady, 
As  nought  more  can  be  said." 

He  opened  the  door,  motioned  to  the  Indian  woman, 
and,  in  a  few  moments,  the  broken-hearted  Lucy  Rives 
and  her  companion  were  hidden  in  the  pines;  and  Pretty 
Pierre  also  disappeared  into  the  shadow  of  the  woods 
as  Shon  McGann  appeared  on  the  crest  of  the  hill. 

The  Irishman  walked  slowly  to  the  door,  and  paus- 
ing, said  to  himself:  "I  couldn't  run  the  big  risk,  me 
darlin',  without  seein'  you  again,  God  help  me!  There's 


276  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

danger  ahead  which  little  I'd  care  for  if  it  wasn't  for 
you." 

Then  he  stepped  inside  the  house — the  place  was 
silent;  he  called,  but  no  one  answered;  he  threw  open 
the  doors  of  the  rooms,  but  they  were  empty;  he  went 
outside  and  called  again,  but  no  reply  came,  except  the 
flutter  of  a  night-hawk's  wings  and  the  cry  of  a  whip- 
poorwill.  He  went  back  into  the  house  and  sat  down 
with  his  head  between  his  hands.  So,  for  a  moment, 
and  then  he  raised  his  head,  and  said  with  a  sad  smile : 
"Faith,  Shon,  me  boy,  this  takes  the  life  out  of  you! — 
the  empty  house  where  she  ought  to  be,  and  the  smile 
of  her  so  swate,  and  the  hand  of  her  that  falls  on  y'r 
shoulder  like  a  dove  on  the  blessed  altar — gone,  and 
lavin'  a  chill  on  y'r  heart  like  a  touch  of  the  dead.  Sure, 
nivir  a  wan  of  me  saw  any  that  could  stand  wid  her  for 
goodness,  ban-in'  the  angel  that  kissed  me  good-bye  with 
one  foot  in  the  stirrup  an'  the  troopers  behind  me,  now 
twelve  years  gone,  in  ould  Donegal,  and  that  I'll  niver 
see  again,  she  lyin'  where  the  hate  of  the  world  will  vex 
the  heart  of  her  no  more,  and  the  masses  gone  up  for 
her  soul.  Twice,  twice  in  y'r  life,  Shon  McGann,  has 
the  cup  of  God's  joy  been  at  y'r  lips,  and  is  it  both  times 
that  it's  to  spill? — Pretty  Pierre  shoots  straight  and  sud- 
den, and  maybe  it's  aisy  to  see  the  end  of  it;  but  as  the 
just  God  is  above  us,  I'll  give  him  the  lie  in  his  throat 
betimes  for  the  word  he  said  agin  me  darlin'.  What's 
the  avil  thing  that  he  has  to  say?  What's  the  divil's 
proof  he  would  bring?  And  where  is  she  now?  Where 
are  you,  Lucy?  I  know  the  proof  I've  got  in  me  heart 
that  the  wreck  of  the  world  couldn't  shake,  while  that 
light,  born  of  Heaven,  swims  up  to  your  eyes  whin  you 
look  at  me!" 

He  rose  to  his  feet  again  and  walked  to  and  fro;  he 


IN  PIPI  VALLEY  277 

went  once  more  to  the  doors;  he  looked  here  and  there 
through  the  growing  dusk,  but  to  no  purpose.  She  had 
said  that  she  would  not  go  to  her  shop  this  night;  but 
if  not,  then  where  could  she  have  gone — and  Ikni,  too? 
He  felt  there  was  more  awry  in  his  life  than  he  cared  to 
put  into  thought  or  speech.  He  picked  up  the  sewing 
she  had  dropped  and  looked  at  it  as  one  would  regard  a 
relic  of  the  dead;  he  lifted  her  handkerchief,  kissed  it, 
and  put  it  in  his  breast.  He  took  a  revolver  from  his 
pocket  and  examined  it  closely,  looked  round  the  room 
as  though  to  fasten  it  in  his  memory,  and  then  passed 
out,  closing  the  door  behind  him.  He  walked  down  the 
hillside  and  went  to  her  shop  in  the  one  street  of  the 
town,  but  she  was  not  there,  nor  had  the  lad  in  charge 
seen  her. 

Meanwhile,  Pretty  Pierre  had  made  his  way  to  the 
Saints'  Repose,  and  was  sitting  among  the  miners  in- 
dolently smoking.  In  vain  he  was  asked  to  play  cards. 
His  one  reply  was,  "No,  pardon,  no!  I  play  one  game 
only  to-night,  the  biggest  game  ever  played  in  Pipi 
Valley."  In  vain,  also,  was  he  asked  to  drink.  He  re- 
fused the  hospitality,  defying  the  danger  that  such  lack 
of  good-fellowship  might  bring  forth.  He  hummed  in 
patches  to  himself  the  words  of  a  song  that  the  brules 
were  wont  to  sing  when  they  hunted  the  buffalo : 

"  Voilb,!  it  is  the  sport  to  ride — 

Ah,  ah  the  brave  hunter! 
To  thrust  the  arrow  in  his  hide, 
To  send  the  bullet  through  his  side — 
Id,  the  buffalo,  joli! 
Ah,  ah  the  buffalo  I" 

He  nodded  here  and  there  as  men  entered;  but  he  did 
not  stir  from  his  seat.  He  smoked  incessantly,  and  his 


278  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

eyes  faced  the  door  of  the  bar-room  that  entered  upon 
the  street.  There  was  no  doubt  in  the  minds  of  any 
present  that  the  promised  excitement  would  occur. 
Shon  McGann  was  as  fearless  as  he  was  gay.  And 
Pipi  Valley  remembered  the  day  in  which  he  had  twice 
risked  his  life  to  save  two  women  from  a  burning  build- 
ing— Lady  Jane  and  another.  And  Lady  Jane  this 
evening  was  agitated,  and  once  or  twice  furtively  looked 
at  something  under  the  bar-counter;  in  fact,  a  close 
observer  would  have  noticed  anger  or  anxiety  in  the 
eyes  of  the  daughter  of  Dick  Waldron,  the  keeper  of  the 
Saints'  Repose.  Pierre  would  certainly  have  seen  it 
had  he  been  looking  that  way.  An  unusual  influence 
was  working  upon  the  frequenters  of  the  busy  tavern. 
Planned,  premeditated  excitement  was  out  of  their  line. 
Unexpectedness  was  the  salt  of  their  existence.  This 
thing  had  an  air  of  system  not  in  accord  with  the  sud- 
denness of  the  Pipi  mind.  The  half-breed  was  the  only 
one  entirely  at  his  ease;  he  was  languid  and  nonchalant; 
the  long  lashes  of  his  half-shut  eyelids  gave  his  face  a 
pensive  look.  At  last  King  Kinkley  walked  over  to 
him  and  said:  "There's  an  almighty  mysteriousness 
about  this  event  which  isn't  joyful,  Pretty  Pierre.  We 
want  to  see  the  muss  cleared  up,  of  course;  we  want 
Shon  McGann  to  act  like  a  high-toned  citizen,  and 
there's  a  general  prejudice  in  favour  of  things  bein' 
on  the  flat  of  your  palm,  as  it  were.  Now  this  thing 
hangs  fire,  and  there's  a  lack  of  animation  about  it, 
isn't  there?" 

To  this,  Pretty  Pierre  replied:  "What  can  I  do? 
This  is  not  like  other  things;  one  had  to  wait;  great 
things  take  time.  To  shoot  is  easy;  but  to  shoot  is  not 
all,  as  you  shall  see  if  you  have  a  little  patience.  Ah,  my 
friend,  where  there  is  a  woman,  things  are  different. 


IN  PIPI  VALLEY  279 

I  throw  a  glass  in  your  face,  we  shoot,  someone  dies, 
and  there  it  is  quite  plain  of  reason;  you  play  a  card 
which  was  dealt  just  now,  I  call  you — something,  and 
the  swiftest  finger  does  the  trick;  but  in  such  as  this, 
one  must  wait  for  the  sport." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Shon  McGann  entered, 
looked  round,  nodded  to  all,  and  then  came  forward  to 
the  table  where  Pretty  Pierre  sat.  As  the  other  took 
out  his  watch,  Shon  said  firmly  but  quietly:  "Pierre, 
I  gave  you  the  lie  to-day  concerning  me  wife,  and  I'm 
here,  as  I  said  I'd  be,  to  stand  by  the  word  I  passed 
then." 

Pierre  waved  his  fingers  lightly  towards  the  other, 
and  slowly  rose.  Then  he  said  in  sharp  tones:  "Yes, 
Shon  McGann,  you  gave  me  the  lie.  There  is  but  one 
thing  for  that  in  Pipi  Valley.  You  choked  me;  I  would 
not  take  that  from  a  saint  of  heaven;  but  there  was 
another  thing  to  do  first.  Well,  I  have  done  it;  I  said 
I  would  bring  proofs — I  have  them."  He  paused,  and 
now  there  might  have  been  seen  a  shining  moisture  on 
his  forehead,  and  his  words  came  menacingly  from  be- 
tween his  teeth,  while  the  room  became  breathlessly 
still,  save  that  in  the  silence  a  sleeping  dog  sighed 
heavily:  "Shon  McGann,"  he  added,  "you  are  living 
with  my  wife." 

Twenty  men  drew  in  a  sharp  breath  of  excite- 
ment, and  Shon  came  a  step  nearer  the  other,  and 
said  in  a  strange  voice:  "I — am— living — with — your 
—wife?" 

"As  I  say,  with  my  wife,  Lucy  Rives.  Franc. ois 
Rives  was  my  name  ten  years  ago.  We  quarrelled.  I 
left  her,  and  I  never  saw  her  again  until  to-night.  You 
went  to  see  her  two  hours  ago.  You  did  not  find  her. 
Why?  She  was  gone  because  her  husband,  Pierre,  told 


280  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

her  to  go.  You  want  a  proof?  You  shall  have  it.  Here 
is  the  wedding-ring  you  gave  her  last  night." 

He  handed  it  over,  and  Shon  saw  inside  it  his  own 
name  and  hers. 

"My  God!"  he  said.  "Did  she  know?  Tell  me  she 
didn't  know,  Pierre?" 

"No,  she  did  not  know.  I  have  truth  to  speak  to- 
night. I  was  jealous,  mad,  and  foolish,  and  I  left  her. 
My  boat  was  found  upset.  They  believed  I  was 
drowned.  Bien,  she  waited  until  yesterday,  and  then 
she  took  you — but  she  was  my  wife;  she  is  my  wife — 
and  so  you  see!" 

The  Irishman  was  deadly  pale. 

"It's  an  avil  heart  y'  had  in  y'  then,  Pretty  Pierre, 
and  it's  an  avil  day  that  brought  this  thing  to  pass,  and 
there's  only  wan  way  to  the  end  of  it." 

"So,  that  is  true.  There  is  only  one  way,"  was  the 
reply ;  ' '  but  what  shall  that  way  be?  Someone  must  go : 
there  must  be  no  mistake.  I  have  to  propose.  Here 
on  this  table  we  lay  a  revolver.  We  will  give  up  these 
which  we  have  in  our  pockets.  Then  we  will  play  a  game 
of  euchre,  and  the  winner  of  the  game  shall  have  the 
revolver.  We  will  play  for  a  life.  That  is  fan-,  eh — • 
that  is  fair?"  he  said  to  those  around. 

King  Kinkley,  speaking  for  the  rest,  replied:  "That's 
about  fair.  It  gives  both  a  chance,  and  leaves  only  two 
when  it's  over.  While  the  woman  lives,  one  of  you  is 
naturally  in  the  way.  Pierre  left  her  in  a  way  that  isn't 
handsome;  but  a  wife's  a  wife,  and  though  Shon  was 
all  in  the  glum  about  the  thing,  and  though  the  woman 
isn't  to  be  blamed  either,  there's  one  too  many  of  you, 
and  there's  got  to  be  a  vacation  for  somebody.  Isn't 
that  so?" 

The  rest  nodded  assent.    They  had  been  so  engaged 


IN  PIPI  VALLEY  281 

that  they  did  not  see  a  woman  enter  the  bar  from  be- 
hind, and  crouch  down  beside  Lady  Jane,  a  woman 
whom  the  latter  touched  affectionately  on  the  shoulder 
and  whispered  to  once  or  twice,  while  she  watched  the 
preparations  for  the  game. 

The  two  men  sat  down,  Shon  facing  the  bar  and 
Pierre  with  his  back  to  it. 

The  game  began,  neither  man  showing  a  sign  of 
nervousness,  though  Shon  was  very  pale.  The  game 
was  to  finish  for  ten  points.  Men  crowded  about  the 
tables  silent  but  keenly  excited;  cigars  were  chewed  in- 
stead of  smoked,  and  liquor  was  left  undrunk.  At  the 
first  deal  Pierre  made  a  march,  securing  two.  At  the 
next  Shon  made  a  point,  and  at  the  next  also  a  march. 
The  half-breed  was  playing  a  straight  game.  He  could 
have  stacked  the  cards,  but  he  did  not  do  so;  deft  as 
he  was  he  might  have  cheated  even  the  vigilant  eyes 
about  him,  but  it  was  not  so;  he  played  as  squarely  as 
a  novice.  At  the  third,  at  the  fourth,  deal  he  made  a 
march;  at  the  fifth,  sixth,  and  seventh  deals,  Shon  made 
a  march,  a  point,  and  a  march.  Both  now  had  eight 
points.  At  the  next  deal  both  got  a  point,  and  both( 
stood  at  nine! 

Now  came  the  crucial  play. 

During  the  progress  of  the  game  nothing  had  been 
heard  save  the  sound  of  a  knuckle  on  the  table,  the 
flip-flip  of  the  pasteboard,  or  the  rasp  of  a  heel  on  the 
floor.  There  was  a  set  smile  on  Shon's  face — a  for- 
gotten smile,  for  the  rest  of  the  face  was  stern  and 
tragic.  Pierre  smoked  cigarettes,  pausing,  while  his 
opponent  was  shuffling  and  dealing,  to  light  them. 

Behind  the  bar  as  the  game  proceeded  the  woman 
who  knelt  beside  Lady  Jane  listened  to  every  sound. 
Her  eyes  grew  more  agonised  as  the  numbers,  whis- 


282  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

pered  to  her  by  her  companion,  climbed  to  the  fatal 
ten. 

The  last  deal  was  Shon's;  there  was  that  much  to 
his  advantage.  As  he  slowly  dealt,  the  woman — Lucy 
Rives — rose  to  her  feet  behind  Lady  Jane.  So  absorbed 
were  all  that  none  saw  her.  Her  eyes  passed  from  Pierre 
to  Shon,  and  stayed. 

When  the  cards  were  dealt,  with  but  one  point  for 
either  to  gain,  and  so  win  and  save  his  life,  there  was  a 
slight  pause  before  the  two  took  them  up.  They  did 
not  look  at  one  another;  but  each  glanced  at  the  re- 
volver, then  at  the  men  nearest  them,  and  lastly,  for 
an  instant,  at  the  cards  themselves,  with  their  paste- 
board faces  of  life  and  death  turned  downward.  As  the 
players  picked  them  up  at  last  and  spread  them  out 
fan-like,  Lady  Jane  slipped  something  into  the  hand  of 
Lucy  Rives. 

Those  who  stood  behind  Shon  McGann  stared  with 
anxious  astonishment  at  his  hand;  it  contained  only 
nine  and  ten  spots.  It  was  easy  to  see  the  direction 
of  the  sympathy  of  Pipi  Valley.  The  Irishman's  face 
turned  a  slight  shade  paler,  but  he  did  not  tremble  or 
appear  disturbed. 

Pierre  played  his  biggest  card  and  took  the  point. 
He  coolly  counted  one,  and  said,  "Game.  I  win." 

The  crowd  drew  back.  Both  rose  to  their  feet.  In 
the  painful  silence  the  half-breed's  hand  was  gently 
laid  on  the  revolver.  He  lifted  it,  and  paused  slightly, 
his  eyes  fixed  to  the  steady  look  in  those  of  Shon  Mc- 
Gann. He  raised  the  revolver  again,  till  it  was  level 
with  Shon's  forehead,  till  it  was  even  with  his  hair! 
Then  there  was  a  shot,  and  someone  fell — not  Shon, 
but  Pierre,  saying,  as  they  caught  him,  "Mon  Dieu! 
Mon  Dieu!  From  behind!" 


IN  PIPI  VALLEY  283 

Instantly  there  was  another  shot,  and  someone 
crashed  against  the  bottles  in  the  bar.  The  other  factor 
in  the  game,  the  wife,  had  shot  at  Pierre,  and  then  sent 
a  bullet  through  her  own  lungs. 

Shon  stood  for  a  moment  as  if  he  was  turned  to  stone, 
and  then  his  head  dropped  hi  his  arms  upon  the  table. 
He  had  seen  both  shots  fired,  but  could  not  speak  hi 
time. 

Pierre  was  severely  but  not  dangerously  wounded 
in  the  neck. 

But  the  woman — ?  They  brought  her  out  from  be- 
hind the  counter.  She  still  breathed;  but  on  her  eyes 
was  the  film  of  coming  death.  She  turned  to  where 
Shon  sat.  Her  lips  framed  his  name,  but  no  voice  came 
forth.  Someone  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  He 
looked  up  and  caught  her  last  glance.  He  came  and 
stooped  beside  her;  but  she  had  died  with  that  one 
glance  from  him,  bringing  a  faint  smile  to  her  lips.  And 
the  smile  stayed  when  the  life  of  her  had  fled — fled 
through  the  cloud  over  her  eyes,  from  the  tide-beat  of 
her  pulse.  It  swept  out  from  the  smoke  and  reeking 
ah*  into  the  open  world,  and  beyond,  into  those  untried 
paths  where  all  must  walk  alone,  and  in  what  bitter- 
ness, known  only  to  the  Master  of  the  World  who  sees 
these  piteous  things,  and  orders  in  what  fashion  dis- 
torted lives  shall  be  made  straight  and  wholesome  hi  the 
Places  of  Readjustment. 

Shon  stood  silent  above  the  dead  body. 

One  by  one  the  miners  went  out  quietly.  Presently 
Pierre  nodded  towards  the  door,  and  King  Kinkley 
and  another  lifted  him  and  carried  him  towards  it. 
Before  they  passed  into  the  street  he  made  them  turn 
him  so  that  he  could  see  Shon.  He  waved  his  hand 
towards  her  that  had  been  his  wife,  and  said:  "She 


284  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

should  have  shot  but  once  and  straight,  Shon  McGann, 
and  then! — Eh,  bien!" 

The  door  closed,  and  Shon  McGann  was  left  alone 
with  the  dead. 


ANTOINE  AND  ANGELIQUE 


ANTOINE  AND  ANGELIQUE 

"THE  birds  are  going  south,  Antoine — see — and  it  is 
so  early!" 

"Yes,  Angelique,  the  winter  will  be  long." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then:  " Antoine,  I  heard  a 
child  cry  in  the  night,  and  I  could  not  sleep." 

"It  was  a  devil-bird,  my  wife;  it  flies  slowly,  and  the 
summer  is  dead." 

"Antoine,  there  was  a  rushing  of  wings  by  my  bed 
before  the  morn  was  breaking." 

"The  wild-geese  know  their  way  in  the  night,  Ange- 
lique; but  they  flew  by  the  house  and  not  near  thy  bed." 

"The  two  black  squirrels  have  gone  from  the  hickory 
tree." 

"They  have  hidden  away  with  the  bears  in  the  earth; 
for  the  frost  comes,  and  it  is  the  time  of  sleep." 

"A  cold  hand  was  knocking  at  my  heart  when  I  said 
my  aves  last  night,  my  Antoine." 

"The  heart  of  a  woman  feels  many  strange  things: 
I  cannot  answer,  my  wife." 

"Let  us  go  also  southward,  Antoine,  before  the  great 
winds  and  the  wild  frost  come." 

"I  love  thee,  Angelique,  but  I  cannot  go." 

"Is  not  love  greater  than  all?" 

"To  keep  a  pledge  is  greater." 

"Yet  if  evil  come?" 

"There  is  the  mine." 

"None  travels  hither;  who  should  find  it?" 

"He  said  to  me,  my  wife:  'Antoine,  will  you  stay 

287 


288  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

and  watch  the  mine  until  I  come  with  the  birds  north- 
ward, again?'  and  I  said:  'I  will  stay,  and  Angelique 
will  stay;  I  will  watch  the  mine."1 

"This  is  for  his  riches,  but  for  our  peril,  Antoine." 

"Who  can  say  whither  a  woman's  fancy  goes?  It 
is  full  of  guessing.  It  is  clouds  and  darkness  to-day,  and 
sunshine — so  much — to-morrow.  I  cannot  answer." 

"I  have  a  fear;  if  my  husband  loved  me — " 

"There  is  the  mine,"  he  interrupted  firmly. 

"When  my  heart  aches  so — " 

"Angelique,  there  is  the  mine." 

"Ah,  my  Antoine!" 

And  so  these  two  stayed  on  the  island  of  St.  Jean, 
in  Lake  Superior,  through  the  purple  haze  of  autumn, 
into  the  white  brilliancy  of  winter,  guarding  the  Rose 
Tree  Mine,  which  Falding  the  Englishman  and  his  com- 
panions had  prospected  and  declared  to  be  their  Ophir. 

But  St.  Jean  was  far  from  the  ways  of  settlement, 
and  there  was  little  food  and  only  one  hut,  and  many 
things  must  be  done  for  the  Rose  Tree  Mine  hi  the 
places  where  men  sell  their  souls  for  money;  and 
Antoine  and  Angelique,  French  peasants  from  the  parish 
of  Ste.  Ire*ne  in  Quebec,  were  left  to  guard  the  place  of 
treasure,  until,  to  the  sound  of  the  laughing  spring, 
there  should  come  many  men  and  much  machinery, 
and  the  sinking  of  shafts  in  the  earth,  and  the  making 
of  riches. 

But  when  Antoine  and  Angelique  were  left  alone  in 
the  waste,  and  God  began  to  draw  the  pale  coverlet  of 
frost  slowly  across  land  and  water,  and  to  surround  St. 
Jean  with  a  stubborn  moat  of  ice,  the  heart  of  the 
woman  felt  some  coming  danger,  and  at  last  broke 
forth  in  words  of  timid  warning.  When  she  once  had 
spoken  she  said  no  more,  but  stayed  and  builded  the 


ANTOINE  AND  ANGELIQUE  289 

heaps  of  earth  about  the  house,  and  filled  every  crevice 
against  the  inhospitable  Spirit  of  Winds,  and  drew  her 
world  closer  and  closer  within  those  two  rooms  where 
they  should  live  through  many  months. 

The  winter  was  harsh,  but  the  hearts  of  the  two 
were  strong.  They  loved;  and  Love  is  the  parent  of 
endurance,  the  begetter  of  courage.  And  every  day, 
because  it  seemed  his  duty,  Antoine  inspected  the  Rose 
Tree  Mine;  and  every  day  also,  because  it  seemed  her 
duty,  Angelique  said  many  aves.  And  one  prayer  was 
much  with  her — for  spring  to  come  early  that  the  child 
should  not  suffer:  the  child  which  the  good  God  was  to 
give  to  her  and  Antoine. 

In  the  first  hours  of  each  evening  Antoine  smoked, 
and  Angelique  sang  the  old  songs  which  then:  ancestors 
learned  in  Normandy.  One  night  Antoine's  face  was 
lighted  with  a  fine  fire  as  he  talked  of  happy  days  hi  the 
parish  of  Ste.  Ire"ne;  and  with  that  romantic  fervour  of 
his  race  which  the  stern  winters  of  Canada  could  not 
kill,  he  sang,  A  la  Claire  Fontaine,  the  well-beloved  song- 
child  of  the  voyageurs'  hearts. 

And  the  wife  smiled  far  away  into  the  dancing  flames 
— far  away,  because  the  fire  retreated,  retreated  to  the 
little  church  where  they  two  were  wed;  and  she  did  as 
most  good  women  do — though  exactly  why,  man  the 
insufficient  cannot  declare — she  wept  a  little  through 
her  smiles.  But  when  the  last  verse  came,  both  smiles 
and  tears  ceased.  Antoine  sang  it  with  a  fond  monotony: 

"  Would  that  each  rose  were  growing 

Upon  the  rose-tree  gay, 

And  that  the  fatal  rose-tree 

Deep  in  the  ocean  lay. 

I  ya  longtemps  que  je  t'aime 
Jamais  je  ne  t'oublierai." 


290  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

Angelique's  heart  grew  suddenly  heavy.  From  the 
rose-tree  of  the  song  her  mind  fled  and  shivered  before 
the  leafless  rose-tree  by  the  mine;  and  her  old  dread 
came  back. 

Of  course  this  was  foolish  of  Angelique;  of  course 
the  wise  and  great  throw  contumely  on  all  such  super- 
stition; and  knowing  women  will  smile  at  each  other 
meaningly,  and  with  pity  for  a  dull  man-writer,  and 
will  whisper,  "Of  course,  the  child."  But  many  things, 
your  majesties,  are  hidden  from  your  wisdom  and  your 
greatness,  and  are  given  to  the  simple — to  babes,  and 
the  mothers  of  babes. 

It  was  upon  this  very  night  that  Falding  the  English- 
man sat  with  other  men  in  a  London  tavern,  talking 
joyously.  "There's  been  the  luck  of  Heaven,"  he  said, 
"in  the  whole  exploit.  We'd  been  prospecting  for 
months.  As  a  sort  of  try  in  a  back-water  we  rowed  over 
one  night  to  an  island  and  pitched  tents.  Not  a  dozen 
yards  from  where  we  camped  was  a  rose-tree — think 
of  it,  Belgard,  a  rose-tree  on  a  rag-tag  island  of  Lake 
Superior!  'There's  luck  in  odd  numbers,  says  Rory 
O'More.'  'There's  luck  here,'  said  I;  and  at  it  we  went 
just  beside  the  rose-tree.  What's  the  result?  Look  at 
that  prospectus:  a  company  with  a  capital  of  two  hun- 
dred thousand;  the  whole  island  in  our  hands  in  a  week; 
and  Antoine  squatting  on  it  now  like  Bonaparte  on 
Elbe." 

"And  what  does  Antoine  get  out  of  this?"  said 
Belgard. 

"Forty  dollars  a  month  and  his  keep." 

"Why  not  write  him  off  twenty  shares  to  propitiate 
the  gods — gifts  unto  the  needy,  eh! — a  thousand-fold — 
what?" 

"Yes;  it  might  be  done,  Belgard,  if — " 


ANTOINE  AND  ANGELIQUE  291 

But  someone  just  then  proposed  the  toast,  "The 
Rose  Tree  Mine!"  and  the  souls  of  these  men  waxed 
proud  and  merry,  for  they  had  seen  the  investor's  palm 
filled  with  gold,  the  maker  of  conquest.  While  Antoine 
was  singing  with  his  wife,  they  were  holding  revel 
within  the  sound  of  Bow  Bells.  And  far  into  the 
night,  through  silent  Cheapside,  a  rolling  voice  swelled 
through  much  laughter  thus: 

"  Gai  Ion  la,  gai  le  rosier, 
Du  joli  mois  de  Mai'* 

The  next  day  there  were  heavy  heads  in  London; 
but  the  next  day,  also,  a  man  lay  ill  in  the  hut  on  the 
island  of  St.  Jean. 

Antoine  had  sung  his  last  song.  He  had  waked  in 
the  night  with  a  start  of  pain,  and  by  the  time  the  sun 
was  halting  at  noon  above  the  Rose  Tree  Mine,  he  had 
begun  a  journey,  the  record  of  which  no  man  has  ever 
truly  told,  neither  its  beginning  nor  its  end;  because 
that  which  is  of  the  spirit  refuseth  to  be  interpreted  by 
the  flesh.  Some  signs  there  be,  but  they  are  brief  and 
shadowy;  the  awe  of  It  is  hidden  hi  the  mind  of  him 
that  goeth  out  lonely  unto  God. 

When  the  call  goes  forth,  not  wife  nor  child  nor  any 
other  can  hold  the  wayfarer  back,  though  he  may  loiter 
for  an  instant  on  the  brink.  The  poor  medicaments 
which  Angelique  brings  avail  not;  these  soothing  hands 
and  healing  tones,  they  pass  through  clouds  of  the  mid- 
dle place  between  heaven  and  earth  to  Antoine.  It 
is  only  when  the  second  midnight  comes  that,  with 
conscious,  but  pensive  and  far-off,  eyes,  he  says  to  her: 
"Angelique,  my  wife." 

For  reply  her  lips  pressed  his  cheek,  and  her  fingers 


292  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

hungered  for  his  neck.     Then:  "Is  there  pain  now 
Antoine?" 

"  There  is  no  pain,  Angelique." 

He  closed  his  eyes  slowly;   her  lips  framed  an  ave. 

"The  mine,"  he  said,  "the  mine — until  the  spring." 

"Yes,  Antoine,  until  the  spring." 

"Have  you  candles — many  candles,  Angelique?" 

"There  are  many,  my  husband." 

"The  ground  is  as  iron;  one  cannot  dig,  and  the 
water  under  the  ice  is  cruel — is  it  not  so,  Angelique?" 

"No  axe  could  break  the  ground,  and  the  water  is 
cruel,"  she  said. 

"You  will  see  my  face  until  the  winter  is  gone,  my 
wife." 

She  bowed  her  head,  but  smoothed  his  hand  mean- 
while, and  her  throat  was  quivering. 

He  partly  slept — his  body  slept,  though  his  mind  was 
feeling  its  way  to  wonderful  things.  But  near  the  morn- 
ing his  eyes  opened  wide,  and  he  said:  "Someone  calls 
out  of  the  dark,  Angelique." 

And  she,  with  her  hand  on  her  heart,  replied:  "It 
is  the  cry  of  a  dog,  Antoine." 

"But  there  are  footsteps  at  the  door,  my  wife." 

"Nay,  Antoine;  it  is  the  snow  beating  upon  the 
window." 

"There  is  the  sound  of  wings  close  by — dost  thou 
not  hear  them,  Angelique?" 

"Wings — wings,"  she  falteringly  said:  "it  is  the  hot 
blast  through  the  chimney;  the  night  is  cold,  An- 
toine." 

"The  night  is  very  cold,"  he  said;  and  he  trembled. 
.  .  .  "I  hear,  0  my  wife,  I  hear  the  voice  of  a  little 
child  .  .  .  the  voice  is  like  thine,  Angelique." 

And  she,  not  knowing  what  to  reply,  said  softly: 


ANTOINE  AND  ANGELIQUE  293 

"There  is  hope  in  the  voice  of  a  child;"  and  the  mother 
stirred  within  her;  and  in  the  moment  he  knew  also  that 
the  Spirits  would  give  her  the  child  hi  safety,  that  she 
should  not  be  alone  in  the  long  winter. 

The  sounds  of  the  harsh  night  had  ceased — the  snap- 
ping of  the  leafless  branches,  the  cracking  of  the  earth, 
and  the  heaving  of  the  rocks:  the  Spirits  of  the  Frost 
had  finished  their  work;  and  just  as  the  grey  forehead 
of  dawn  appeared  beyond  the  cold  hills,  Antoine  cried 
out  gently:  "Angelique  .  .  .  Ah,  mon  Capitaine  .  .  . 
Jesu"  .  .  .  and  then,  no  more. 

Night  after  night  Angelique  lighted  candles  in  the 
place  where  Antoine  smiled  on  in  his  frozen  silence; 
and  masses  were  said  for  his  soul — the  masses  Love 
murmurs  for  its  dead.  The  earth  could  not  receive  him; 
its  bosom  was  adamant;  but  no  decay  could  touch  him; 
and  she  dwelt  alone  with  this,  that  was  her  husband, 
until  one  beautiful,  bitter  day,  when,  with  no  eye  save 
God's  to  see  her,  and  no  human  comfort  by  her,  she 
gave  birth  to  a  man-child.  And  yet  that  night  she 
lighted  the  candles  at  the  dead  man's  head  and  feet, 
dragging  herself  thither  in  the  cold;  and  in  her  heart 
she  said  that  the  smile  on  Antoine's  face  was  deeper 
than  it  had  been  before. 

In  the  early  spring,  when  the  earth  painfully  breathed 
away  the  frost  that  choked  it,  with  her  child  for 
mourner,  and  herself  for  sexton  and  priest,  she  buried 
Antoine  with  maimed  rites:  but  hers  were  the  prayers 
of  the  poor,  and  of  the  pure  in  heart;  and  she  did  not 
fret  because,  in  the  hour  that  her  comrade  was  put 
away  into  the  dark,  the  world  was  laughing  at  the 
thought  of  coming  summer. 

Before  another  sunrise,  the  owners  of  the  island  of 
St.  Jean  claimed  what  was  theirs;  and  because  that 


294  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

which  had  happened  worked  upon  then:  hearts,  they 
called  the  child  St.  Jean,  and  from  that  time  forth  they 
made  him  to  enjoy  the  goodly  fruits  of  the  Rose  Tree 
Mine. 


THE  CIPHER 


THE  CIPHER 

HILTON  was  staying  his  horse  by  a  spring  at  Guidon 
Hill  when  he  first  saw  her.  She  was  gathering  may- 
apples;  her  apron  was  full  of  them.  He  noticed  that 
she  did  not  stir  until  he  rode  almost  upon  her.  Then 
she  started,  first  without  looking  round,  as  does  an 
animal,  dropping  her  head  slightly  to  one  side,  though 
not  exactly  appearing  to  listen.  Suddenly  she  wheeled 
on  him,  and  her  big  eyes  captured  him.  The  look  be- 
wildered him.  She  was  a  creature  of  singular  fascina- 
tion. Her  face  was  expressive.  Her  eyes  had  wonder- 
ful light.  She  looked  happy,  yet  grave  withal;  it  was 
the  gravity  of  an  uncommon  earnestness.  She  gazed 
through  everything,  and  beyond.  She  was  young — 
eighteen  or  so. 

Hilton  raised  his  hat,  and  courteously  called  a  good- 
morning  at  her.  She  did  not  reply  by  any  word,  but 
nodded  quaintly,  and  blinked  seriously  and  yet  blithely 
on  him.  He  was  preparing  to  dismount.  As  he  did 
so  he  paused,  astonished  that  she  did  not  speak  at  all. 
Her  face  did  not  have  a  familiar  language;  its  vocabu- 
lary was  its  own.  He  slid  from  his  horse,  and,  throwing 
his  arm  over  its  neck  as  it  stooped  to  the  spring,  looked 
at  her  more  intently,  but  respectfully  too.  She  did  not 
yet  stir,  but  there  came  into  her  face  a  slight  inflection 
of  confusion  or  perplexity.  Again  he  raised  his  hat  to 
her,  and,  smiling,  wished  her  a  good-morning.  Even 
as  he  did  so  a  thought  sprung  in  him.  Understanding 
gave  place  to  wonder;  he  interpreted  the  unusual  look 
in  her  face. 

297 


298  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

Instantly  he  made  a  sign  to  her.  To  that  her  face 
responded  with  a  wonderful  speech — of  relief  and  recog- 
nition. The  corners  of  her  apron  dropped  from  her 
fingers,  and  the  yellow  may-apples  fell  about  her  feet. 
She  did  not  notice  this.  She  answered  his  sign  with 
another,  rapid,  graceful,  and  meaning.  He  left  his  horse 
and  advanced  to  her,  holding  out  his  hand  simply — 
for  he  was  a  simple  and  honest  man.  Her  response  to 
this  was  spontaneous.  The  warmth  of  her  fingers  in- 
vaded him.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  questioning.  He 
gave  a  hearty  sign  of  admiration.  She  flushed  with 
pleasure,  but  made  a  naive,  protesting  gesture. 

She  was  deaf  and  dumb. 

Hilton  had  once  a  sister  who  was  a  mute.  He  knew 
that  amazing  primal  gesture-language  of  the  silent  race, 
whom  God  has  sent  like  one-winged  birds  into  the 
world.  He  had  watched  in  his  sister  just  such  looks  of 
absolute  nature  as  flashed  from  this  girl.  They  were 
comrades  on  the  instant;  he  reverential,  gentle,  pro- 
tective; she  sanguine,  candid,  beautifully  aboriginal 
in  the  freshness  of  her  cipher- thoughts.  She  saw  the 
world  naked,  with  a  naked  eye.  She  was  utterly  natural. 
She  was  the  maker  of  exquisite,  vital  gesture-speech. 

She  glided  out  from  among  the  may-apples  and  the 
long,  silken  grass,  to  charm  his  horse  with  her  hand.  As 
she  started  to  do  so,  he  hastened  to  prevent  her,  but, 
utterly  surprised,  he  saw  the  horse  whinny  to  her  cheek, 
and  arch  his  neck  under  her  white  palm — it  was  very 
white.  Then  the  animal's  chin  sought  her  shoulder  and 
stayed  placid.  He  had  never  done  so  to  anyone  before 
save  Hilton.  Once,  indeed,  he  had  kicked  a  stableman 
to  death.  He  lifted  his  head  and  caught  with  playful 
shaking  lips  at  her  ear.  Hilton  smiled;  and  so,  as  we 
said,  their  comradeship  began. 


THE  CIPHER  299 

He  was  a  new  officer  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company 
at  Fort  Guidon.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a  ranchman. 
She  had  been  educated  by  Father  Corraine,  the  Jesuit 
missionary,  Protestant  though  she  was.  He  had  learned 
the  sign-language  while  assistant-priest  in  a  Parisian 
chapel  for  mutes.  He  taught  her  this  gesture-tongue, 
which  she,  taking,  rendered  divine;  and,  with  this,  she 
learned  to  read  and  write. 

Her  name  was  Ida. 

Ida  was  faultless.  Hilton  was  not;  but  no  man  is. 
To  her,  however,  he  was  the  best  that  man  can  be.  He 
was  unselfish  and  altogether  honest,  and  that  is  much 
for  a  man. 

When  Pierre  came  to  know  of  their  friendship  he 
shook  his  head  doubtfully.  One  day  he  was  sitting  on 
the  hot  side  of  a  pine  near  his  mountain  hut,  soaking 
in  the  sun.  He  saw  them  passing  below  him,  along  the 
edge  of  the  hill  across  the  ravine.  He  said  to  someone 
behind  him  in  the  shade,  who  was  looking  also, — "What 
will  be  the  end  of  that,  eh?" 

And  the  someone  replied:  "Faith,  what  the  Serpent 
in  the  Wilderness  couldn't  cure." 

"You  think  he'll  play  with  her?" 

"I  think  he'll  do  it  without  wishin'  or  willin',  maybe. 
It'll  be  a  case  of  kiss  and  ride  away." 

There  was  silence.  Soon  Pierre  pointed  down  again. 
She  stood  upon  a  green  mound  with  a  cool  hedge  of 
rock  behind  her,  her  feet  on  the  margin  of  solid  sunlight, 
her  forehead  bared.  Her  hair  sprinkled  round  her  as 
she  gently  threw  back  her  head.  Her  face  was  full  on 
Hilton.  She  was  telling  him  something.  Her  gestures 
were  rhythmical,  and  admirably  balanced.  Because 
they  were  continuous  or  only  regularly  broken,  it  was 
clear  she  was  telling  him  a  story.  Hilton  gravely,  de- 


300  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

lightedly,  nodded  response  now  and  then,  or  raised  his 
eyebrows  in  fascinated  surprise.  Pierre,  watching,  was 
only  aware  of  vague  impressions — not  any  distinct  out- 
line of  the  tale.  At  last  he  guessed  it  as  a  perfect  pas- 
toral— birds,  reaping,  deer,  winds,  sundials,  cattle,  shep- 
herds, hunting.  To  Hilton  it  was  a  new  revelation.  She 
was  telling  him  things  she  had  thought,  she  was  recalling 
her  life. 

Towards  the  last,  she  said  in  gesture:  "You  can 
forget  the  winter,  but  not  the  spring.  You  like  to  re- 
member the  spring.  It  is  the  beginning.  When  the 
daisy  first  peeps,  when  the  tall  young  deer  first  stands 
upon  its  feet,  when  the  first  egg  is  seen  in  the  oriole's 
nest,  when  the  sap  first  sweats  from  the  tree,  when  you 
first  look  into  the  eye  of  your  friend — these  you  want 
to  remember.  ..." 

She  paused  upon  this  gesture — a  light  touch  upon  the 
forehead,  then  the  hands  stretched  out,  palms  upward, 
with  coaxing  fingers.  She  seemed  lost  in  it.  Her  eyes 
rippled,  her  lips  pressed  slightly,  a  delicate  wine  crept 
through  her  cheek,  and  tenderness  wimpled  all.  Her 
soft  breast  rose  modestly  to  the  cool  texture  of  her  dress. 
Hilton  felt  his  blood  bound  joyfully;  he  had  the  wish  of 
instant  possession.  But  yet  he  could  not  stir,  she  held 
him  so ;  for  a  change  immediately  passed  upon  her.  She 
glided  slowly  from  that  almost  statue-like  repose  into 
another  gesture.  Her  eyes  drew  up  from  his,  and  looked 
away  to  plumbless  distance,  all  glowing  and  childlike, 
and  the  new  ciphers  slowly  said : 

"But  the  spring  dies  away.  We  can  only  see  a  thing 
born  once.  And  it  may  be  ours,  yet  not  ours.  I  have 
sighted  the  perfect  Sharon-flower,  far  up  on  Guidon, 
yet  it  was  not  mine;  it  was  too  distant;  I  could  not 
reach  it.  I  have  seen  the  silver  bullfinch  floating  along 


THE  CIPHER  301 

the  canon.  I  called  to  it,  and  it  came  singing;  and  it 
was  mine,  yet  I  could  not  hear  its  song,  and  I  let  it  go; 
it  could  not  be  happy  so  with  me.  ...  I  stand  at  the 
gate  of  a  great  city,  and  see  all,  and  feel  the  great  shut- 
tles of  sounds,  the  roar  and  clack  of  wheels,  the  horses' 
hoofs  striking  the  ground,  the  hammer  of  bells;  all: 
and  yet  it  is  not  mine;  it  is  far,  far  away  from  me.  It 
is  one  world,  mine  is  another;  and  sometimes  it  is 
lonely,  and  the  best  things  are  not  for  me.  But  I  have 
seen  them,  and  it  is  pleasant  to  remember,  and  nothing 
can  take  from  us  the  hour  when  things  were  born,  when 
we  saw  the  spring — nothing — never!" 

Her  manner  of  speech,  as  this  went  on,  became  ex- 
quisite in  fineness,  slower,  and  more  dream-like,  until, 
with  downward  protesting  motions  of  the  hand,  she  said 
that  "nothing — never!"  Then  a  great  sigh  surged  up 
her  throat,  her  lips  parted  slightly,  showing  the  warm 
moist  whiteness  of  her  teeth,  her  hands  falling  lightly, 
drew  together  and  folded  in  front  of  her.  She  stood 
still. 

Pierre  had  watched  this  scene  intently,  his  chin  in  his 
hands,  his  elbows  on  his  knees.  Presently  he  drew  him- 
self up,  ran  a  finger  meditatively  along  his  lip,  and  said 
to  himself:  "It  is  perfect.  She  is  carved  from  the  core 
of  nature.  But  this  thing  has  danger  for  her  .  .  .  bien! 
.  .  .  ah!" 

A  change  in  the  scene  before  him  caused  this  last 
expression  of  surprise. 

Hilton,  rousing  from  the  enchanting  pantomime,  took 
a  step  towards  her;  but  she  raised  her  hand  pleadingly, 
restrainingly,  and  he  paused.  With  his  eyes  he  asked 
her  mutely  why.  She  did  not  answer,  but,  all  at  once 
transformed  into  a  thing  of  abundant  sprightliness,  ran 
down  the  hillside,  tossing  up  her  arms  gaily.  Yet  her 


302  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

face  was  not  all  brilliance.  Tears  hung  at  her  eyes. 
But  Hilton  did  not  see  these.  He  did  not  run,  but 
walked  quickly,  following  her;  and  his  face  had  a  de- 
termined look.  Immediately,  a  man  rose  up  from  be- 
hind a  rock  on  the  same  side  of  the  ravine,  and  shook 
clenched  fists  after  the  departing  figures;  then  stood 
gesticulating  angrily  to  himself,  until,  chancing  to  look 
up,  he  sighted  Pierre,  and  straightway  dived  into  the 
underbrush.  Pierre  rose  to  his  feet,  and  said  slowly: 
"Hilton,  there  may  be  trouble  for  you  also.  It  is  a 
tangled  world." 

Towards  evening  Pierre  sauntered  to  the  house  of 
Ida's  father.  Light  of  footstep,  he  came  upon  the  girl 
suddenly.  They  had  always  been  friends  since  the  day 
when,  at  uncommon  risk,  he  rescued  her  dog  from  a 
freshet  on  the  Wild  Moose  River.  She  was  sitting  ut- 
terly still,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  He  struck  his 
foot  smartly  on  the  ground.  She  felt  the  vibration,  and 
looked  up.  He  doffed  his  hat,  and  she  held  out  her  hand. 
He  smiled  and  took  it,  and,  as  it  lay  in  his,  looked  at  it 
for  a  moment  musingly.  She  drew  it  back  slowly.  He 
was  then  thinking  that  it  was  the  most  intelligent  hand 
he  had  ever  seen.  .  .  .  He  determined  to  play  a  bold 
and  surprising  game.  He  had  learned  from  her  the  al- 
phabet of  the  fingers — that  is,  how  to  spell  words.  He 
knew  little  gesture-language.  He,  therefore,  spelled 
slowly:  "Hawley  is  angry,  because  you  love  Hilton." 
The  statement  was  so  matter-of-fact,  so  sudden,  that 
the  girl  had  no  chance.  She  flushed  and  then  paled. 
She  shook  her  head  firmly,  however,  and  her  fingers 
slowly  framed  the  reply :  "  You  guess  too  much.  Fool- 
ish things  come  to  the  idle." 

"I  saw  you  this  afternoon,"  he  silently  urged. 

Her  fingers  trembled  slightly.    "There  was  nothing 


THE   CIPHER  303 

to  see."  She  knew  he  could  not  have  read  her  gestures. 
"I  was  telling  a  story." 

"You  ran  from  him — why?"  His  questioning  was 
cruel  that  he  might  in  the  end  be  kind. 

"The  child  runs  from  its  shadow,  the  bird  from  its 
nest,  the  fish  jumps  from  the  water — that  is  nothing." 
She  had  recovered  somewhat. 

But  he:  "The  shadow  follows  the  child,  the  bird 
comes  back  to  its  nest,  the  fish  cannot  live  beyond  the 
water.  But  it  is  sad  when  the  child,  in  running,  rushes 
into  darkness,  and  loses  its  shadow;  when  the  nest  falls 
from  the  tree;  and  the  hawk  catches  the  happy  fish. 
.  .  .  Hawley  saw  you  also." 

Hawley,  like  Ida,  was  deaf  and  dumb.  He  lived  over 
the  mountains,  but  came  often.  It  had  been  understood 
that,  one  day,  she  should  marry  him.  It  seemed  fitting. 
She  had  said  neither  yes  nor  no.  And  now? 

A  quick  tremor  of  trouble  trailed  over  her  face,  then 
it  became  very  still.  Her  eyes  were  bent  upon  the 
ground  steadily.  Presently  a  bird  hopped  near,  its 
head  coquetting  at  her.  She  ran  her  hand  gently  along 
the  grass  towards  it.  The  bird  tripped  on  it.  She  lifted 
it  to  her  chin,  at  which  it  pecked  tenderly.  Pierre 
watched  her  keenly — admiring,  pitying.  He  wished  to 
serve  her.  At  last,  with  a  kiss  upon  its  head,  she  gave  it 
a  light  toss  into  the  ah*,  and  it  soared,  lark-like,  straight 
up,  and  hanging  over  her  head,  sang  the  day  into  the 
evening.  Her  eyes  followed  it.  She  could  feel  that  it 
was  singing.  She  smiled  and  lifted  a  finger  lightly  to- 
wards it.  Then  she  spelled  to  Pierre  this:  "It  is  sing- 
ing to  me.  We  imperfect  things  love  each  other." 

"And  what  about  loving  Hawley,  then?"  Pierre  per- 
sisted. She  did  not  reply,  but  a  strange  look  came  upon 
her,  and  in  the  pause  Hilton  came  from  the  house  and 


304  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

stood  beside  them.  At  this,  Pierre  lighted  a  cigarette, 
and  with  a  good-natured  nod  to  Hilton,  walked  away. 

Hilton  stooped  over  her,  pale  and  eager.  "Ida,"  he 
gestured,  "will  you  answer  me  now?  Will  you  be  my 
wife?"  She  drew  herself  together  with  a  little  shiver. 
"No,"  was  her  steady  reply.  She  ruled  her  face  into 
stillness,  so  that  it  showed  nothing  of  what  she  felt. 
She  came  to  her  feet  wearily,  and  drawing  down  a  cool 
flowering  branch  of  chestnut,  pressed  it  to  her  cheek. 

"You  do  not  love  me?"  he  asked  nervously. 

"I  am  going  to  marry  Luke  Hawley,"  was  her  slow 
answer.  She  spelled  the  words.  She  used  no  gesture 
to  that.  The  fact  looked  terribly  hard  and  inflexible 
so.  Hilton  was  not  a  vain  man,  and  he  believed  he 
was  not  loved.  His  heart  crowded  to  his  throat. 

"Please  go  away,  now,"  she  begged  with  an  anxious 
gesture.  While  the  hand  was  extended,  he  reached 
and  brought  it  to  his  lips,  then  quickly  kissed  her  on 
the  forehead,  and  walked  away.  She  stood  trembling, 
and  as  the  fingers  of  one  hand  hung  at  her  side,  they 
spelled  mechanically  these  words:  "It  would  spoil  his 
life.  I  am  only  a  mute — a  dummy!" 

As  she  stood  so,  she  felt  the  approach  of  someone. 
She  did  not  turn  instantly,  but  with  the  aboriginal 
instinct,  listened,  as  it  were,  with  her  body;  but  pres- 
ently faced  about — to  Hawley.  He  was  red  with  anger. 
He  had  seen  Hilton  kiss  her.  He  caught  her  smartly 
by  the  arm,  but,  awed  by  the  great  calmness  of  her  face, 
dropped  it,  and  fell  into  a  fit  of  sullenness.  She  spoke 
to  him:  he  did  not  reply.  She  touched  his  arm:  he 
still  was  gloomy.  All  at  once  the  full  price  of  her  sacri- 
fice rushed  upon  her;  and  overpowered  her.  She  had 
no  help  at  her  critical  hour,  not  even  from  this  man  she 
had  intended  to  bless.  There  came  a  swift  revulsion, 


THE  CIPHER  305 

all  passions  stormed  in  her  at  once.  Despair  was  the 
resultant  of  these  forces.  She  swerved  from  him  im- 
mediately, and  ran  hard  towards  the  high-banked  river! 

Hawley  did  not  follow  her  at  once:  he  did  not  guess 
her  purpose.  She  had  almost  reached  the  leaping-place, 
when  Pierre  shot  from  the  trees,  and  seized  her.  The 
impulse  of  this  was  so  strong,  that  they  slipped,  and 
quivered  on  the  precipitous  edge:  but  Pierre  righted 
then,  and  presently  they  were  safe. 

Pierre  held  her  hard  by  both  wrists  for  a  moment. 
Then,  drawing  her  away,  he  loosed  her,  and  spelled 
these  words  slowly :  ' '  I  understand.  But  you  are  wrong. 
Hawley  is  not  the  man.  You  must  come  with  me.  It 
is  foolish  to  die." 

The  riot  of  her  feelings,  her  momentary  despair,  were 
gone.  It  was  even  pleasant  to  be  mastered  by  Pierre's 
firmness.  She  was  passive.  Mechanically  she  went  with 
him.  Hawley  approached.  She  looked  at  Pierre.  Then 
she  turned  on  the  other.  "Yours  is  not  the  best  love," 
she  signed  to  him;  "it  does  not  trust;  it  is  selfish."  And 
she  moved  on. 

But,  an  hour  later,  Hilton  caught  her  to  his  bosom, 
and  kissed  her  full  on  the  lips.  .  .  .  And  his  right  to  do 
so  continues  to  this  day. 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  NOBODIES 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  NOBODIES 

AT  Fort  Latrobe  sentiment  was  not  of  the  most  refined 
kind.  Local  customs  were  pronounced  and  crude  in 
outline;  language  was  often  highly  coloured,  and  action 
was  occasionally  accentuated  by  a  pistol  shot.  For  the 
first  few  months  of  its  life  the  place  was  honoured  by 
the  presence  of  neither  wife,  nor  sister,  nor  mother. 
Yet  women  lived  there. 

When  some  men  did  bring  wives  and  children,  it 
was  noticed  that  the  girl  Blanche  was  seldom  seen  in 
the  streets.  And,  however  it  was,  there  grew  among 
the  men  a  faint  respect  for  her.  They  did  not  talk  of  it 
to  each  other,  but  it  existed.  It  was  known  that  Blanche 
resented  even  the  most  casual  notice  from  those  men 
who  had  wives  and  homes.  She  gave  the  impression 
that  she  had  a  remnant  of  conscience. 

"Go  home,"  she  said  to  Harry  Belong,  who  asked 
her  to  drink  with  him  on  New  Year's  Day.  "Go  home, 
and  thank  God  that  you've  got  a  home — and  a  wife." 

After  Jacques,  the  long-time  friend  of  Pretty  Pierre, 
came  to  Fort  Latrobe,  with  his  sulky  eye  and  scru- 
pulously neat  attire,  Blanche  appeared  to  withdraw 
still  more  from  public  gaze,  though  no  one  saw  any  con- 
nection between  these  events.  The  girl  also  became 
fastidious  in  her  dress,  and  lost  all  her  former  dash  and 
smart  aggression  of  manner.  She  shrank  from  the 
women  of  her  class,  for  which,  as  might  be  expected, 
she  was  duly  reviled.  But  the  foxes  have  holes,  and  the 
birds  of  the  air  have  nests,  nor  has  it  been  written  that 

309 


310  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

a  woman  may  not  close  her  ears,  and  bury  herself  in 
darkness,  and  travel  alone  in  the  desert  with  her  people 
— those  ghosts  of  herself,  whose  name  is  legion,  and 
whose  slow  white  fingers  mock  more  than  the  world 
dare  at  its  worst. 

Suddenly,  she  was  found  behind  the  bar  of  Weir's 
Tavern  at  Cedar  Point,  the  resort  most  frequented  by 
Jacques.  Word  went  about  among  the  men  that 
Blanche  was  taking  a  turn  at  religion,  or,  otherwise,  ref- 
ormation. Soldier  Joe  was  something  sceptical  on  this 
point  from  the  fact  that  she  had  developed  a  very  un- 
certain temper.  This  appeared  especially  noticeable  in 
her  treatment  of  Jacques.  She  made  him  the  target  for 
her  sharpest  sarcasm.  Though  a  peculiar  glow  came  to 
his  eyes  at  times,  he  was  never  roused  from  his  exasper- 
ating coolness.  When  her  shafts  were  unusually  direct 
and  biting,  and  the  temptation  to  resent  was  keen,  he 
merely  shrugged  his  shoulders,  almost  gently,  and  said : 
"Eh,  such  women!" 

Nevertheless,  there  were  men  at  Fort  Latrobe  who 
prophesied  trouble,  for  they  knew  there  was  a  deep 
strain  of  malice  in  the  French  half-breed  which  could  be 
the  more  deadly  because  of  its  rare  use.  He  was  not 
easily  moved,  he  viewed  life  from  the  heights  of  a  philos- 
ophy which  could  separate  the  petty  from  the  prodig- 
ious. His  reputation  was  not  wholly  disquieting;  he 
was  of  the  goats,  he  had  sometimes  been  found  with  the 
sheep,  he  preferred  to  be  numbered  with  the  transgres- 
sors. Like  Pierre,  his  one  passion  was  gambling.  There 
were  legends  that  once  or  twice  in  his  life  he  had  had  an- 
other passion,  but  that  some  Gorgon  drew  out  his  heart- 
strings painfully,  one  by  one,  and  left  him  inhabited 
by  a  pale  spirit  now  called  Irony,  now  Indifference — 
under  either  name  a  fret  and  an  anger  to  women. 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  NOBODIES  311 

At  last  Blanche's  attacks  on  Jacques  called  out 
anxious  protests  from  men  like  rollicking  Soldier  Joe, 
who  said  to  her  one  night,  "Blanche,  there's  a  devil  in 
Jacques.  Some  day  you'll  startle  him,  and  then  he'll 
shoot  you  as  cool  as  he  empties  the  pockets  of  Freddy 
Tarlton  over  there." 

And  Blanche  replied:  "When  he  does  that,  what  will 
you  do,  Joe?" 

'Do?     Do?"     The  man  stroked  his  beard  softly. 
"Why,  give  him  ditto — cold." 

"Well,  then,  there's  nothing  to  row  about,  is  there?" 

And  Soldier  Joe  was  not  on  the  instant  clever  enough 
to  answer  her  sophistry;  but  when  she  left  him  and  he 
had  thought  awhile,  he  said,  convincingly: 

"But  where  would  you  be  then,  Blanche?  .  .  . 
That's  the  point." 

One  thing  was  known  and  certain:  Blanche  was 
earning  her  living  by  honest,  if  not  high-class,  labour. 
Weir  the  tavern-keeper  said  she  was  "worth  hundreds" 
to  him.  But  she  grew  pale,  her  eyes  became  peculiarly 
brilliant,  her  voice  took  a  lower  key,  and  lost  a  kind  of 
hoarseness  it  had  hi  the  past.  Men  came  in  at  tunes 
merely  to  have  a  joke  at  her  expense,  having  heard  of 
her  new  life;  but  they  failed  to  enjoy  their  own  attempts 
at  humour.  Women  of  her  class  came  also,  some  with 
half -uncertain  jibes,  some  with  a  curious  wistfulness, 
and  a  few  with  scornful  oaths;  but  the  jibes  and  oaths 
were  only  for  a  time.  It  became  known  that  she  had 
paid  the  coach  fare  of  Miss  Dido  (as  she  was  called)  to 
the  hospital  at  Wapiti,  and  had  raised  a  subscription  for 
her  maintenance  there,  heading  it  herself  with  a  liberal 
sum.  Then  the  atmosphere  round  her  became  less  try- 
ing; yet  her  temper  remained  changeable,  and  had  it 
not  been  that  she  was  good-looking  and  witty,  her  posi- 


312  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

tion  might  have  been  insecure.  As  it  was,  she  ruled  hi 
a  neutral  territory  where  she  was  the  only  woman. 

One  night,  after  an  inclement  remark  to  Jacques,  in 
the  card-room,  Blanche  came  back  to  the  bar,  and  not 
noticing  that,  while  she  was  gone,  Soldier  Joe  had 
entered  and  laid  himself  down  on  a  bench  in  a  corner, 
she  threw  her  head  passionately  forward  on  her  arms  as 
they  rested  on  the  counter,  and  cried:  "0  my  God! 
my  God!" 

Soldier  Joe  lay  still  as  if  sleeping,  and  when  Blanche 
was  called  away  again  he  rose,  stole  out,  went  down  to 
Freddy  Tarlton's  office,  and  offered  to  bet  Freddy  two 
to  one  that  Blanche  wouldn't  live  a  year.  Joe's  ex- 
perience of  women  was  limited.  He  had  in  his  mind 
the  case  of  a  girl  who  had  accidentally  smothered  her 
child;  and  so  he  said: 

"Blanche  has  something  on  her  mind  that's  killing 
her,  Freddy.  When  trouble  fixes  on  her  sort  it  kills 
swift  and  sure.  They've  nothing  to  live  for  but  life, 
and  it  isn't  good  enough,  you  see,  for — for — "  Joe 
paused  to  find  out  where  his  philosophy  was  taking 
him. 

Freddy  Tarlton  finished  the  sentence  for  him:  "For 
an  inner  sorrow  is  a  consuming  fire" 

Fort  Latrobe  soon  had  an  unexpected  opportunity  to 
study  Soldier  Joe's  theory.  One  night  Jacques  did  not 
appear  at  Weir's  Tavern  as  he  had  engaged  to  do,  and 
Soldier  Joe  and  another  went  across  the  frozen  river  to 
his  log-hut  to  seek  him.  They  found  him  by  a  hand- 
ful of  fire,  breathing  heavily  and  nearly  unconscious. 
One  of  the  sudden  and  frequently  fatal  colds  of  the 
mountains  had  fastened  on  him,  and  he  had  begun  a 
war  for  life.  Joe  started  back  at  once  for  liquor  and  a 
doctor,  leaving  his  comrade  to  watch  by  the  sick  man. 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  NOBODIES  313 

He  could  not  understand  why  Blanche  should  stagger 
and  grow  white  when  he  told  her;  nor  why  she  insisted 
on  taking  the  liquor  herself.  He  did  not  yet  guess  the 
truth. 

The  next  day  all  Fort  Latrobe  knew  that  Blanche 
was  nursing  Jacques,  on  what  was  thought  to  be  his  no- 
return  journey.  The  doctor  said  it  was  a  dangerous 
case,  and  he  held  out  little  hope.  Nursing  might  bring 
him  through,  but  the  chance  was  very  slight.  Blanche 
only  occasionally  left  the  sick  man's  bedside  to  be  re- 
lieved by  Soldier  Joe  and  Freddy  Tarlton.  It  dawned 
on  Joe  at  last, — it  had  dawned  on  Freddy  before, — what 
Blanche  meant  by  the  heart-breaking  words  uttered 
that  night  in  Weir's  Tavern.  Down  through  the  crust 
of  this  woman's  heart  had  gone  something  both  joyful 
and  painful.  Whatever  it  was,  it  made  Blanche  a  sav- 
ing nurse,  a  good  apothecary;  for,  one  night  the  doctor 
pronounced  Jacques  out  of  danger,  and  said  that  a  few 
days  would  bring  him  round  if  he  was  careful. 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  Jacques  fully  comprehended 
all  Blanche  had  done  for  him,  though  he  had  ceased  to 
wonder  at  her  changed  attitude  to  him.  Through  his 
suffering  and  his  delirium  had  come  the  understanding 
of  it.  When,  after  the  crisis,  the  doctor  turned  away 
from  the  bed,  Jacques  looked  steadily  into  Blanche's 
eyes,  and  she  flushed,  and  wiped  the  wet  from  his  brow 
with  her  handkerchief.  He  took  the  handkerchief  from 
her  fingers  gently  before  Soldier  Joe  came  over  to  the 
bed. 

The  doctor  had  insisted  that  Blanche  should  go  to 
Weir's  Tavern  and  get  the  night's  rest,  needed  so  much, 
and  Joe  now  pressed  her  to  keep  her  promise.  Jacques 
added  an  urging  word,  and  after  a  time  she  started. 
Joe  had  forgotten  to  tell  her  that  a  new  road  had  been 


314  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

made  on  the  ice  since  she  had  crossed,  and  that  the  old 
road  was  dangerous.  Wandering  with  her  thoughts  she 
did  not  notice  the  spruce  bushes  set  up  for  signal,  until 
she  had  stepped  on  a  thin  piece  of  ice.  It  bent  beneath 
her.  She  slipped:  there  was  a  sudden  sinking,  a  sharp 
cry,  then  another,  piercing  and  hopeless — and  it  was  the 
one  word — " Jacques!"  Then  the  night  was  silent  as 
before.  But  someone  had  heard  the  cry.  Freddy  Tarl- 
ton  was  crossing  the  ice  also,  and  that  desolating 
Jacques!  had  reached  his  ears.  When  he  found  her  he 
saw  that  she  had  been  taken  and  the  other  left.  But 
that  other,  asleep  in  his  bed  at  the  sacred  moment  when 
she  parted,  suddenly  waked,  and  said  to  Soldier  Joe: 

"Did  you  speak,  Joe?    Did  you  call  me?" 

But  Joe,  who  had  been  playing  cards  with  himself, 
replied,  "I  haven't  said  a  word." 

And  Jacques  then  added:  " Perhaps  I  dream — per- 
haps." 

On  the  advice  of  the  doctor  and  Freddy  Tarlton,  the 
bad  news  was  kept  from  Jacques.  When  she  did  not 
come  the  next  day,  Joe  told  him  that  she  couldn't;  that 
he  ought  to  remember  she  had  had  no  rest  for  weeks, 
and  had  earned  a  long  rest.  And  Jacques  said  that 
was  so. 

Weir  began  preparations  for  the  funeral,  but  Freddy 
Tarlton  took  them  out  of  his  hands — Freddy  Tarlton, 
who  visited  at  the  homes  of  Fort  Latrobe.  But  he  had 
the  strength  of  his  convictions  such  as  they  were.  He 
began  by  riding  thirty  miles  and  back  to  ask  the  young 
clergyman  at  Purple  Hill  to  come  and  bury  Blanche. 
She'd  reformed  and  been  baptised,  Freddy  said  with  a 
sad  sort  of  humour.  And  the  clergyman,  when  he  knew 
all,  said  that  he  would  come.  Freddy  was  hardly  pre- 
pared for  what  occurred  when  he  got  back.  Men  were 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  NOBODIES  315 

waiting  for  him,  anxious  to  know  if  the  clergyman  was 
coming.  They  had  raised  a  subscription  to  cover  the 
cost  of  the  funeral,  and  among  them  were  men  such  as 
Harry  Delong. 

"You  fellows  had  better  not  mix  yourselves  up  in 
this,"  said  Freddy. 

But  Harry  Delong  replied  quickly:  "I  am  going  to  see 
the  thing  through."  And  the  others  endorsed  his  words. 

When  the  clergyman  came,  and  looked  at  the  face  of 
this  Magdalene,  he  was  struck  by  its  comeliness  and 
quiet.  All  else  seemed  to  have  been  washed  away.  On 
her  breast  lay  a  knot  of  white  roses — white  roses  in  this 
winter  desert. 

One  man  present,  seeing  the  look  of  wonder  in  the 
clergyman's  eyes,  said  quietly:  "My — my  wife  sent 
them.  She  brought  the  plant  from  Quebec.  It  has  just 
bloomed.  She  knows  all  about  her." 

That  man  was  Harry  Delong.  The  keeper  of  his 
home  understood  the  other  homeless  woman.  When 
she  knew  of  Blanche's  death  she  said:  "Poor  girl, 
poor  girl!"  and  then  she  had  gently  added,  "Poor 
Jacques!" 

And  Jacques,  as  he  sat  in  a  chair  by  the  fire  four  days 
after  the  tragedy,  did  not  know  that  the  clergyman  was 
reading  over  a  grave  on  the  hillside,  words  which  are 
for  the  hearts  of  the  quick  as  for  the  untenanted  dead. 

To  Jacques's  inquiries  after  Blanche,  Soldier  Joe  had 
made  changing  and  vague  replies.  At  last  he  said  that 
she  was  ill ;  then,  that  she  was  very  ill,  and  again,  that 
she  was  better,  almighty  better — now.  The  third  day 
following  the  funeral,  Jacques  insisted  that  he  would  go 
and  see  her.  The  doctor  at  length  decided  he  should 
be  taken  to  Weir's  Tavern,  where,  they  declared,  they 
would  tell  him  all.  And  they  took  him,  and  placed 


316  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

him  by  the  fire  in  the  card-room,  a  wasted  figure,  but 
fastidious  in  manner  and  scrupulously  neat  in  person 
as  of  old.  Then  he  asked  for  Blanche;  but  even  now 
they  had  not  the  courage  for  it.  The  doctor  nervously 
went  out,  as  if  to  seek  her;  and  Freddy  Tarlton  said, 
"  Jacques,  let  us  have  a  little  game,  just  for  quarters, 
you  know.  Eh?" 

The  other  replied  without  eagerness:  "Voila,  one 
game,  then!" 

They  drew  him  to  the  table,  but  he  played  listlessly. 
His  eyes  shifted  ever  to  the  door.  Luck  was  against 
him.  Finally  he  pushed  over  a  silver  piece,  and  said: 
"The  last.  My  money  is  all  gone.  Bien!"  He  lost 
that  too. 

Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  a  ranchman  from 
Purple  Hill  entered.  He  looked  carelessly  round,  and 
then  said  loudly: 

"Say,  Joe,  so  you've  buried  Blanche,  have  you? 
Poor  old  girl!" 

There  was  a  heavy  silence.  No  one  replied.  Jacques 
started  to  his  feet,  gazed  around  searchingly,  painfully, 
and  presently  gave  a  great  gasp.  His  hands  made  a 
chafing  motion  in  the  air,  and  then  blood  showed  on  his 
lips  and  chin.  He  drew  a  handkerchief  from  his  breast. 

"Pardon!  .  .  .  Pardon!"  he  faintly  cried  in  apology, 
and  put  it  to  his  mouth. 

Then  he  fell  backwards  in  the  arms  of  Soldier  Joe. 
who  wiped  a  moisture  from  the  lifeless  cheek  as  he  laid 
the  body  on  a  bed. 

In  a  corner  of  the  stained  handkerchief  they  found 
the  word, — 

Blanche. 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS 

FATHER  CORRAINE  stood  with  his  chin  in  his  hand  and 
one  arm  supporting  the  other,  thinking  deeply.  His 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  northern  horizon,  along  which  the 
sun  was  casting  oblique  rays;  for  it  was  the  beginning 
of  the  winter  season. 

Where  the  prairie  touched  the  sun  it  was  responsive 
and  radiant;  but  on  either  side  of  this  red  and  golden 
tapestry  there  was  a  tawny  glow  and  then  a  duskiness 
which,  curving  round  to  the  north  and  east,  became 
blue  and  cold — an  impalpable  but  perceptible  barrier 
rising  from  the  earth,  and  shutting  in  Father  Corraine 
like  a  prison  wall.  And  this  shadow  crept  stealthily  on 
and  invaded  the  whole  circle,  until,  where  the  radiance 
had  been,  there  was  one  continuous  wall  of  gloom,  ris- 
ing arc  upon  arc  to  invasion  (5f  the  zenith,  and  pierced 
only  by  some  intrusive  wandering  stars. 

And  still  the  priest  stood  there  looking,  until  the 
darkness  closed  down  on  him  with  an  almost  tangible 
consistency.  Then  he  appeared  to  remember  himself, 
and  turned  away  with  a  gentle  remonstrance  of  his 
head,  and  entered  the  hut  behind  him.  He  lighted  a 
lamp,  looked  at  it  doubtfully,  blew  it  out,  set  it  aside, 
and  lighted  a  candle.  This  he  set  in  the  one  window  of 
the  room  which  faced  the  north  and  west. 

He  went  to  a  door  opening  into  the  only  other  room 
in  the  hut,  and  with  his  hand  on  the  latch  looked 
thoughtfully  and  sorrowfully  at  something  in  the  cor- 
ner of  the  room  where  he  stood.  He  was  evidently  de- 

319  . 


320  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

bating  upon  some  matter, — probably  the  removal  of 
what  was  in  the  corner  to  the  other  room.  If  so,  he 
finally  decided  to  abandon  the  intention.  He  sat  down 
in  a  chair,  faced  the  candle,  again  dropped  his  chin 
upon  his  hand,  and  kept  his  eyes  musingly  on  the  light. 
He  was  silent  and  motionless  a  long  time,  then  his  lips 
moved,  and  he  seemed  to  repeat  something  to  himself 
in  whispers. 

Presently  he  took  a  well-worn  book  from  his  pocket, 
and  read  aloud  from  it  softly  what  seemed  to  be  an 
office  of  his  Church.  His  voice  grew  slightly  louder  as 
he  continued,  until,  suddenly,  there  ran  through  the 
words  a  deep  sigh  which  did  not  come  from  himself. 
He  raised  his  head  quickly,  started  to  his  feet,  and  turn- 
ing round,  looked  at  that  something  in  the  corner.  It 
took  the  form  of  a  human  figure,  which  raised  itself 
on  an  elbow  and  said:  "Water — water — for  the  love  of 
God!" 

Father  Corrame  stood  painfully  staring  at  the  figure 
for  a  moment,  and  then  the  words  broke  from  him: 
"Not  dead — not  dead — wonderful!"  Then  he  stepped 
quickly  to  a  table,  took  therefrom  a  pannikin  of  water, 
and  kneeling,  held  it  to  the  lips  of  the  gasping  figure 
of  a  woman,  throwing  his  arm  round  the  shoulder,  and 
supporting  the  head  on  his  breast.  Again  he  spoke: 
"Alive — alive!  Blessed  be  Heaven!" 

The  hands  of  the  woman  seized  the  hand  of  the 
priest,  which  held  the  pannikin,  and  kissed  it,  saying 
faintly:  "You  are  good  to  me.  .  .  .  But  I  must  sleep 
— I  must  sleep — I  am  so  tired;  and  I've — very  far — to 
go — across  the  world." 

This  was  said  very  slowly,  then  the  head  thick  with 
brown  curls  dropped  again  on  the  priest's  breast,  heavy 
with  sleep.  Father  Corraine,  flushing  slightly  at  first, 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS       321 

became  now  slightly  pale,  and  his  brow  was  a  place  of 
war  between  thankfulness  and  perplexity.  But  he  said 
something  prayerfully,  then  closed  his  lips  firmly,  and 
gently  laid  the  figure  down,  where  it  was  immediately 
clothed  about  with  slumber.  Then  he  rose,  and  stand- 
ing with  his  eyes  bent  upon  the  sleeper  and  his  fingers 
clasping  each  other  tightly  before  him,  said:  "Poor  girl! 
So,  she  is  alive.  And  now  what  will  come  of  it?  " 

He  shook  his  grey  head  in  doubt,  and  immediately 
began  to  prepare  some  simple  food  and  refreshment  for 
the  sufferer  when  she  should  awake.  In  the  midst  of 
doing  so  he  paused  and  repeated  the  words,  "And  what 
will  come  of  it?"  Then  he  added:  "There  was  no  sign 
of  pulse  nor  heart-beat  when  I  found  her.  But  life  hides 
itself  where  man  cannot  reach  it." 

Having  finished  his  task,  he  sat  down,  drew  the  book 
of  holy  offices  again  from  his  bosom,  and  read  it,  whis- 
peringly,  for  a  time;  then  fell  to  musing,  and,  after  a 
considerable  time,  knelt  down  as  if  in  prayer.  While 
he  knelt,  the  girl,  as  if  startled  from  her  sleep  by  some 
inner  shock,  opened  her  eyes  wide  and  looked  at  him, 
first  with  bewilderment,  then  with  anxiety,  then  with 
wistful  thankfulness.  "Oh,  I  thought — I  thought  when 
I  awoke  before  that  it  was  a  woman.  But  it  is  the  good 
Father  Corraine — Corraine,  yes,  that  was  the  name." 

The  priest's  clean-shaven  face,  long  hair,  and  black 
cassock  had,  in  her  first  moments  of  consciousness, 
deceived  her.  Now  a  sharp  pain  brought  a  moan  to  her 
lips;  and  this  drew  the  priest's  attention.  He  rose,  and 
brought  her  some  food  and  drink.  "My  daughter,"  he 
said,  "you  must  take  these."  Something  in  her  face 
touched  his  sensitive  mind,  and  he  said,  solemnly:  "You 
are  alone  with  me  and  God,  this  hour.  Be  at  peace. 
Eat." 


322  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

Her  eyes  swam  with  instant  tears.  "I  know — I  am 
alone — with  God,"  she  said.  Again  he  gently  urged 
the  food  upon  her,  and  she  took  a  little;  but  now  and 
then  she  put  her  hand  to  her  side  as  if  in  pain.  And 
once,  as  she  did  so,  she  said:  "I've  far  to  go  and  the 
pain  is  bad.  Did  they  take  him  away?  " 

Father  Corraine  shook  his  head.  "I  do  not  know  of 
whom  you  speak,"  he  replied.  "When  I  went  to  my 
door  this  morning  I  found  you  lying  there.  I  brought 
you  in,  and,  finding  no  sign  of  life  in  you,  sent  Feather- 
foot,  my  Indian,  to  Fort  Cypress  for  a  trooper  to 
come;  for  I  feared  that  there  had  been  ill  done  to 
you,  somehow.  This  border-side  is  but  a  rough  coun- 
try. It  is  not  always  safe  for  a  woman  to  travel  alone." 

The  girl  shuddered.  "Father,"  she  said,— " Father 
Corraine,  I  believe  you  are?"  (Here  the  priest  bowed 
his  head.)  "I  wish  to  tell  you  all,  so  that  if  ever  any  evil 
did  come  to  me,  if  I  should  die  without  doin'  what's  in 
my  heart  to  do,  you  would  know,  and  would  tell  him 
if  you  ever  saw  him,  how  I  remembered,  and  kept 
rememberin'  him  always,  till  my  heart  got  sick  with 
waitin',  and  I  came  to  find  him  far  across  the  seas." 

"Tell  me  your  tale,  my  child,"  he  patiently  said.  Her 
eyes  were  on  the  candle  in  the  window  questioningly. 
"It  is  for  the  trooper — to  guide  him,"  the  other  re- 
marked. " 'Tis  past  tune  that  he  should  be  here.  When 
you  are  able  you  can  go  with  him  to  the  Fort.  You  will 
be  better  cared  for  there,  and  will  be  among  women." 

"The  man — the  man  who  was  kind  to  me — I  wish 
I  knew  of  him,"  she  said. 

"I  am  waiting  for  your  story,  my  child.  Speak  of 
your  trouble,  whether  it  be  of  the  mind  and  body,  or  of 
the  soul." 

"You  shall  judge  if  it  be  of  the  soul,"  she  answered. 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS       323 

"I  come  from  far  away.  I  lived  in  old  Donegal  since 
the  day  that  I  was  born  there,  and  I  had  a  lover,  as 
brave  and  true  a  lad  as  ever  trod  the  world.  But  sorrow 
came.  One  night  at  Farcalladen  Rise  there  was  a  crack 
of  arms  and  a  clatter  of  fleeing  hoofs,  and  he  that  I  loved 
came  to  me  and  said  a  quick  word  of  partin',  and  with  a 
kiss — it's  burnin'  on  my  lips  yet — askin'  pardon,  father, 
for  speech  of  this  to  you — and  he  was  gone,  an  outlaw, 
to  Australia.  For  a  time  word  came  from  him.  Then 
I  was  taken  ill  and  couldn't  answer  his  letters,  and  a 
cousin  of  my  own,  who  had  tried  to  win  my  love,  did  a 
wicked  thing.  He  wrote  a  letter  to  him  and  told  him 
I  was  dyin',  and  that  there  was  no  use  of  farther  words 
from  him.  And  never  again  did  word  come  to  me  from 
him.  But  I  waited,  my  heart  sick  with  longin'  and  full 
of  hate  for  the  memory  of  the  man  who,  when  struck 
with  death,  told  me  of  the  cruel  deed  he  had  done  be- 
tween us  two." 

She  paused,  as  she  had  to  do  several  times  during 
the  recital,  through  weariness  or  pain;  but,  after  a  mo- 
ment, proceeded.  "One  day,  one  beautiful  day,  when 
the  flowers  were  like  love  to  the  eye,  and  the  larks  singin' 
overhead,  and  my  thoughts  goin'  with  them  as  they 
swam  until  they  were  lost  in  the  sky,  and  every  one  of 
them  a  prayer  for  the  lad  livin'  yet,  as  I  hoped,  some- 
where in  God's  universe — there  rode  a  gentleman  down 
Farcalladen  Rise.  He  stopped  me  as  I  walked,  and  said 
a  kind  good-day  to  me;  and  I  knew  when  I  looked  into 
his  face  that  he  had  word  for  me — the  whisperin'  of 
some  angel,  I  suppose, — and  I  said  to  him  as  though  he 
had  asked  me  for  it,  'My  name  is  Mary  Callen,  sir.' 

"At  that  he  started,  and  the  colour  came  quick  to 
his  face;  and  he  said:  ' I  am  Sir  Duke  Lawless.  I  come 
to  look  for  Mary  Callen's  grave.  Is  there  a  Mary  Callen 


324  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

dead,  and  a  Mary  Callen  livin'?  and  did  both  of  them 
love  a  man  that  went  from  Farcalladen  Rise  one  wild 
night  long  ago?' 

"'There's  but  one  Mary  Callen,'  said  I,  'but  the 
heart  of  me  is  dead,  until  I  hear  news  that  brings  it  to 
life  again?' 

"'And  no  man  calls  you  wife?'  he  asked. 

'"No  man,  Sir  Duke  Lawless,'  answered  I.  'And 
no  man  ever  could,  save  him  that  used  to  write  me  of 
you  from  the  heart  of  Australia;  only  there  was  no  Sir 
to  your  name  then.' 

"'I've  come  to  that  since,'  said  he. 

"'Oh,  tell  me/  I  cried,  with  a  quiverin'  at  my  heart, 
'tell  me,  is  he  livin'?' 

"And  he  replied:  'I  left  him  in  the  Pipi  Valley  of  the 
Rocky  Mountains  a  year  ago.' 

" '  A  year  ago! '  said  I,  sadly. 

'"I'm  ashamed  that  I've  been  so  long  in  comin'  here/ 
replied  he;  'but,  of  course,  he  didn't  know  that  you  were 
alive,  and  I  had  been  parted  from  a  lady  for  years — a 
lover's  quarrel — and  I  had  to  choose  between  courtin' 
her  again  and  marryin'  her,  or  comin'  to  Farcalladen 
Rise  at  once.  Well,  I  went  to  the  altar  first.' 

"'Oh,  sir,  you've  come  with  the  speed  of  the  wind, 
for  now  that  I've  news  of  him,  it  is  only  yesterday  that 
he  went  away,  not  years  agone.  But  tell  me,  does  he 
ever  think  of  me? '  I  questioned. 

"'He  thinks  of  you/  he  said,  'as  one  for  whom  the 
masses  for  the  dead  are  spoken;  but  while  I  knew 
him,  first  and  last,  the  memory  of  you  was  with  him.' 

"With  that  he  got  off  his  horse,  and  said:  'I'll  walk 
with  you  to  his  father's  home.' 

"'You'll  not  do  that/  I  replied;  'for  it's  level  with 
the  ground.  God  punish  them  that  did  it!  And  they're 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS       325 

lyin'  in  the  glen  by  the  stream  that  he  loved  and 
galloped  over  many  a  time.' 

'"They  are  dead — they  are  dead,  then/  said  he, 
with  his  bridle  swung  loose  on  his  arm  and  his  hat  off 
reverently. 

"'Gone  home  to  Heaven  together/  said  I,  'one  day 
and  one  hour,  and  a  prayer  on  their  lips  for  the  lad; 
and  I  closin'  then*  eyes  at  the  last.  And  before  they 
went  they  made  me  sit  by  them  and  sing  a  song  that's 
common  here  with  us;  for  manny  and  manny  of  the 
strength  and  pride  of  Farcalladen  Rise  have  sailed  the 
wide  seas  north  and  south,  and  otherwhere,  and  comin' 
back  maybe  and  maybe  not.' 

"'Hark/  he  said,  very  gravely,  'and  I'll  tell  you  what 
it  is,  for  I've  heard  him  sing  it,  I  know,  in  the  worst 
days  and  the  best  days  that  ever  we  had,  when  luck 
was  wicked  and  big  against  us  and  we  starvin'  on  the 
wallaby  track;  or  when  we  found  the  turn  in  the  lane 
to  brighter  days.' 

"And  then  with  me  lookin'  at  him  full  in  the  eyes, 
gentleman  though  he  was, — for  comrade  he  had  been 
with  the  man  I  loved, — he  said  to  me  there,  so  finely 
and  kindly,  it  ought  to  have  brought  the  dead  back 
from  their  graves  to  hear,  these  words: 

* '  You'll  travel  far  and  wide,  dear,  but  you'll  come  back  again, 
You'll  come  back  to  your  father  and  your  mother  in  the  glen, 
Although  we  should  be  lyin'  'neath  the  heather  grasses  then — 
You'll  be  comin'  back,  my  darlin'  1 ' 

* '  You'll  see  the  icebergs  sailin'  along  the  wintry  foam, 

The  white  hair  of  the  breakers,  and  the  wild  swans  as  they 

roam; 

But  you'll  not  forget  the  rowan  beside  your  father's  home — 
You'll  be  comin'  back,  rny  darlin'.' " 


326 

Here  the  girl  paused  longer  than  usual,  and  the  priest 
dropped  his  forehead  in  his  hand  sadly. 

"I've  brought  grief  to  your  kind  heart,  father/'  she 
said. 

"No,  no,"  he  replied,  "not  sorrow  at  all;  but  I  was 
born  on  the  Liffey  side,  though  it's  forty  years  and  more 
since  I  left  it,  and  I'm  an  old  man  now.  That  song  I 
knew  well,  and  the  truth  and  the  heart  of  it  too.  .  .  . 
I  am  listening." 

"Well,  together  we  went  to  the  grave  of  the  father 
and  mother,  and  the  place  where  the  home  had  been, 
and  for  a  long  time  he  was  silent,  as  though  they  who 
slept  beneath  the  sod  were  his,  and  not  another's;  but 
at  last  he  said: 

"'And  what  will  you  do?  I  don't  quite  know  where 
he  is,  though;  when  last  I  heard  from  him  and  his  com- 
rades, they  were  in  the  Pipi  Valley.' 

"My  heart  was  full  of  joy;  for  though  I  saw  how 
touched  he  was  because  of  what  he  saw,  it  was  all  com- 
mon to  my  sight,  and  I  had  grieved  much,  but  had  had 
little  delight;  and  I  said: 

"'There's  only  one  thing  to  be  done.  He  cannot 
come  back  here,  and  I  must  go  to  him — that  is,'  said  I, 
'if  you  think  he  cares  for  me  still, — for  my  heart  quakes 
at  the  thought  that  he  might  have  changed.' 

"'I  know  his  heart,'  said  he,  'and  you'll  find  him,  I 
doubt  not,  the  same,  though  he  buried  you  long  ago  in 
a  lonely  tomb, — the  tomb  of  a  sweet  remembrance, 
where  the  flowers  are  everlastin'.'  Then  after  more 
words  he  offered  me  money  with  which  to  go;  but  I 
said  to  him  that  the  love  that  couldn't  carry  itself 
across  the  sea  by  the  strength  of  the  hands  and  the 
sweat  of  the  brow  was  no  love  at  all;  and  that  the 
harder  was  the  road  to  him  the  gladder  I'd  be,  so 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS       327 

that  it  didn't  keep  me  too  long,  and  brought  me  to 
him  at  last. 

"He  looked  me  up  and  down  very  earnestly  for  a 
minute,  and  then  he  said:  'What  is  there  under  the 
roof  of  heaven  like  the  love  of  an  honest  woman!  It 
makes  the  world  worth  livin'  in.' 

"'Yes,'  said  I,  'when  love  has  hope,  and  a  place  to 
lay  its  head.' 

'"Take  this,'  said  he — and  he  drew  from  his  pocket 
his  watch — '  and  carry  it  to  him  with  the  regard  of  Duke 
Lawless,  and  this  for  yourself — fetching  from  his  pocket 
a,  revolver  and  putting  it  into  my  hands;  'for  the 
prairies  are  but  rough  places  after  all,  and  it's  better 
to  be  safe  than — worried.  .  .  .  Never  fear  though  but 
the  prairies  will  bring  back  the  finest  of  blooms  to  your 
cheek,  if  fair  enough  it  is  now,  and  flush  his  eye  with 
pride  of  you;  and  God  be  with  you  both,  if  a  sinner  may 
say  that,  and  breakin'  no  saint's  prerogative.'  And  he 
mounted  to  ride  away,  havin'  shaken  my  hand  like  a 
brother;  but  he  turned  again  before  he  went,  and  said: 
'Tell  him  and  his  comrades  that  I'll  shoulder  my  gun 
and  join  them  before  the  world  is  a  year  older,  if  I  can. 
For  that  land  is  God's  land,  and  its  people  are  my  peo- 
ple, and  I  care  not  who  knows  it,  whatever  here  I  be.' 

"I  worked  my  way  across  the  sea,  and  stayed  awhile 
in  the  East  earning  money  to  carry  me  over  the  land 
and  into  the  Pipi  Valley.  I  joined  a  party  of  emigrants 
that  were  goin'  westward,  and  travelled  far  with  them. 
But  they  quarrelled  and  separated,  I  goin'  with  these 
that  I  liked  best.  One  night  though,  I  took  my  horse 
and  left;  for  I  knew  there  was  evil  in  the  heart  of  a  man 
who  sought  me  continually,  and  the  thing  drove  me  mad. 
I  rode  until  my  horse  could  stumble  no  farther,  and  then 
I  took  the  saddle  for  a  pillow  and  slept  on  the  bare 


328  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

ground.  And  in  the  morning  I  got  up  and  rode  on,  seem* 
no  house  nor  human  being  for  manny  and  manny  a  mile. 
When  everything  seemed  hopeless  I  came  suddenly  upon 
a  camp.  But  I  saw  that  there  was  only  one  man  there, 
and  I  should  have  turned  back,  but  that  I  was  worn  and 
ill,  and,  moreover,  I  had  ridden  almost  upon  him.  But 
he  was  kind.  He  shared  his  food  with  me,  and  asked 
me  where  I  was  goin'.  I  told  him,  and  also  that  I  had 
quarrelled  with  those  of  my  party  and  had  left  them — • 
nothing  more.  He  seemed  to  wonder  that  I  was  goin' 
to  Pipi  Valley;  and  when  I  had  finished  my  tale  he  said: 
'Well,  I  must  tell  you  that  I  am  not  good  company  for 
you.  I  have  a  name  that  doesn't  pass  at  par  up  here. 
To  speak  plain  truth,  troopers  are  looking  for  me,  and 
— strange  as  it  may  be — for  a  crime  which  I  didn't 
commit.  That  is  the  foolishness  of  the  law.  But  for 
this  I'm  making  for  the  American  border,  beyond  which, 
treaty  or  no  treaty,  a  man  gets  refuge.' 

"He  was  silent  after  that,  lookin'  at  me  thoughtfully 
the  while,  but  in  a  way  that  told  me  I  might  trust  him, 
evil  though  he  called  himself.  At  length  he  said:  'I 
know  a  good  priest,  Father  Corraine,  who  has  a  cabin 
sixty  miles  or  more  from  here,  and  I'll  guide  you  to  him, 
if  so  be  you  can  trust  a  half-breed  and  a  gambler,  and 
one  men  call  an  outlaw.  If  not,  I'm  feared  it'll  go  hard 
with  you;  for  the  Cypress  Hills  are  not  easy  travel,  as 
I've  known  this  many  a  year.  And  should  you  want  a 
name  to  call  me,  Pretty  Pierre  will  do,  though  my  god- 
fathers and  godmothers  did  different  for  me  before  they 
went  to  Heaven.'  And  nothing  said  he  irreverently, 
father." 

Here  the  priest  looked  up  and  answered:  "Yes,  yes, 
I  know  him  well — an  evil  man,  and  yet  he  has  suffered 
too  .  .  .  Well,  well,  my  daughter?" 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS       329 

"At  that  he  took  his  pistol  from  his  pocket  and 
handed  it.  'Take  that/  he  said.  'It  will  make  you 
safer  with  me,  and  I'll  ride  ahead  of  you,  and  we  shall 
reach  there  by  sundown,  I  hope.' 

"And  I  would  not  take  his  pistol,  but,  shamed  a  little, 
showed  hun  the  one  Sir  Duke  Lawless  gave  me.  '  That's 
right,'  he  said,  'and,  maybe,  it's  better  that  I  should 
carry  mine,  for,  as  I  said,  there  are  anxious  gentlemen 
lookin'  for  me,  who  wish  to  give  me  a  quiet  but  dreary 
home.  And  see,'  he  added,  'if  they  should  come  you 
will  be  safe,  for  they  sit  in  the  judgment  seat,  and  the 
statutes  hang  at  their  saddles,  and  I'll  say  this  for  them, 
that  a  woman  to  them  is  as  a  saint  of  God  out  here 
where  women  and  saints  are  few.' 

"I  do  not  speak  as  he  spoke,  for  his  words  had  a  turn 
of  French ;  but  I  knew  that,  whatever  he  was,  I  should 
travel  peaceably  with  him.  Yet  I  saw  that  he  would  be 
runnin'  the  risk  of  his  own  safety  for  me,  and  I  told  him 
that  I  could  not  have  him  do  it;  but  he  talked  me  lightly 
down,  and  we  started.  We  had  gone  but  a  little  distance, 
when  there  galloped  over  a  ridge  upon  us,  two  men  of 
the  party  I  had  left,  and  one,  I  saw,  was  the  man  I 
hated;  and  I  cried  out  and  told  Pretty  Pierre.  He 
wheeled  his  horse,  and  held  his  pistol  by  hun.  They 
said  that  I  should  come  with  them,  and  they  told  a 
dreadful  lie — that  I  was  a  runaway  wife;  but  Pierre 
answered  them  they  lied.  At  this,  one  rode  forward  sud- 
denly, and  clutched  me  at  my  waist  to  drag  me  from  my 
horse.  At  this,  Pierre's  pistol  was  thrust  in  his  face, 
and  Pierre  bade  him  cease,  which  he  did;  but  the  other 
came  down  with  a  pistol  showin',  and  Pierre,  seein'  they 
were  determined,  fired;  and  the  man  that  clutched  at 
me  fell  from  his  horse.  Then  the  other  drew  off;  and 
Pierre  got  down,  and  stooped,  and  felt  the  man's  heart, 


330  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

and  said  to  the  other:  'Take  your  friend  away,  for  he  is 
dead;  but  drop  that  pistol  of  yours  on  the  ground  first/ 
And  the  man  did  so;  and  Pierre,  as  he  looked  at  the 
dead  man,  added:  'Why  did  he  make  me  kill  him?' 

"Then  the  two  tied  the  body  to  the  horse,  and  the 
man  rode  away  with  it.  We  travelled  on  without 
speakin'  for  a  long  tune,  and  then  I  heard  him  say 
absently:  'I  am  sick  of  that.  When  once  you  have 
played  shuttlecock  with  human  life,  you  have  to  play 
it  to  the  end — that  is  the  penalty.  But  a  woman  is  a 
woman,  and  she  must  be  protected.'  Then  afterward 
he  turned  and  asked  me  if  I  had  friends  in  Pipi  Valley; 
and  because  what  he  had  done  for  me  had  worked  upon 
me,  I  told  him  of  the  man  I  was  goin'  to  find.  And  he 
started  in  his  saddle,  and  I  could  see  by  the  way  he 
twisted  the  mouth  of  his  horse  that  I  had  stirred  him." 

Here  the  priest  interposed:  "What  is  the  name  of 
the  man  in  Pipi  Valley  to  whom  you  are  going?" 

And  the  girl  replied:  "Ah,  father,  have  I  not  told 
you?  It  is  Shon  McGann — of  Farcalladen  Rise." 

At  this,  Father  Corraine  seemed  suddenly  troubled, 
and  he  looked  strangely  and  sadly  at  her.  But  the 
girl's  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  candle  in  the  window, 
as  if  she  saw  her  story  in  it;  and  she  continued:  "A 
colour  spread  upon  him,  and  then  left  him  pale;  and  he 
said :  '  To  Shon  McGann — you  are  going  to  him  ?  Think 
of  that — that!'  For  an  instant  I  thought  a  horrible 
smile  played  upon  his  face,  and  I  grew  frightened,  and 
said  to  him:  'You  know  him.  You  are  not  sorry  that 
you  are  helping  me?  You  and  Shon  McGann  are  not 
enemies? ' 

"After  a  moment  the  smile  that  struck  me  with  dread 
passed,  and  he  said,  as  he  drew  himself  up  with  a  shake: 
'Shon  McGann  and  I  were  good  friends — as  good  as 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS       331 

ever  shared  a  blanket  or  split  a  loaf,  though  he  was  free 
of  any  evil,  and  I  failed  of  any  good.  .  .  .  Well,  there 
came  a  change.  We  parted.  We  could  meet  no  more; 
but  who  could  have  guessed  this  thing?  Yet,  hear  me — 
I  am  no  enemy  of  Shon  McGann,  as  let  my  deeds  to 
you  prove.'  And  he  paused  again,  but  added  presently: 
'It's  better  you  should  have  come  now  than  two  years 
ago.' 

"And  I  had  a  fear  in  my  heart,  and  to  this  asked  him 
why.  'Because  then  he  was  a  friend  of  mine,'  he  said, 
'and  ill  always  comes  to  those  who  are  such.'  I  was 
troubled  at  this,  and  asked  him  if  Shon  was  in  Pipi 
Valley  yet.  'I  do  not  know,'  said  he,  'for  I've  travelled 
long  and  far  from  there;  still,  while  I  do  not  wish  to  put 
doubt  into  your  mind,  I  have  a  thought  he  may  be 
gone.  .  .  .  He  had  a  gay  heart,'  he  continued,  'and  we 
saw  brave  days  together.' 

"And  though  I  questioned  him,  he  told  me  little  more, 
but  became  silent,  scannin'  the  plains  as  we  rode;  but 
once  or  twice  he  looked  at  me  in  a  strange  fashion,  and 
passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead,  and  a  grey  look 
came  upon  his  face.  I  asked  him  if  he  was  not  well. 
'Only  a  kind  of  fightin'  within,'  he  said;  'such  things 
soon  pass,  and  it  is  well  they  do,  or  we  should  break  to 
pieces.' 

"And  I  said  again  that  I  wished  not  to  bring  him  into 
danger.  And  he  replied  that  these  matters  were  ac- 
cordin'  to  Fate;  that  men  like  him  must  go  on  when 
once  the  die  is  cast,  for  they  cannot  turn  back.  It 
seemed  to  me  a  bitter  creed,  and  I  was  sorry  for  him. 
Then  for  hours  we  kept  an  almost  steady  silence,  and 
comin'  at  last  to  the  top  of  a  rise  of  land  he  pointed  to 
a  spot  far  off  on  the  plains,  and  said  that  you,  father, 
lived  there;  and  that  he  would  go  with  me  still  a  little 


332  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

way,  and  then  leave  me.  I  urged  him  to  go  at  once,  but 
he  would  not,  and  we  came  down  into  the  plains.  He 
had  not  ridden  far  when  he  said  sharply: 

'"The  Riders  of  the  Plains,  those  gentlemen  who 
seek  me,  are  there — see!  Ride  on  or  stay,  which  you 
please.  If  you  go  you  will  reach  the  priest,  if  you  stay 
here  where  I  shall  leave  you,  you  will  see  me  taken  per- 
haps, and  it  may  be  fightin'  or  death;  but  you  will  be 
safe  with  them.  On  the  whole,  it  is  best,  perhaps,  that 
you  should  ride  away  to  the  priest.  They  might  not  be- 
lieve all  that  you  told  them,  ridin'  with  me  as  you  are.' 

"But  I  think  a  sudden  madness  again  came  upon  me. 
Rememberin'  what  things  were  done  by  women  for 
refugees  in  old  Donegal,  and  that  this  man  had  risked 
his  life  for  me,  I  swung  my  horse  round  nose  and  nose 
with  his,  and  drew  my  revolver,  and  said  that  I  should 
see  whatever  came  to  him.  He  prayed  me  not  to  do  so 
wild  a  thing;  but  when  I  refused,  and  pushed  on  along 
with  him,  makin'  at  an  angle  for  some  wooded  hills,  I 
saw  that  a  smile  played  upon  his  face.  We  had  almost 
reached  the  edge  of  the  wood  when  a  bullet  whistled 
by  us.  At  that  the  smile  passed  and  a  strange  look 
came  upon  him,  and  he  said  to  me: 

"'This  must  end  here.  I  think  you  guess  I  have  no 
coward's  blood;  but  I  am  sick  to  the  teeth  of  fightin'. 
I  do  not  wish  to  shock  you,  but  I  swear,  unless  you  turn 
and  ride  away  to  the  left  towards  the  priest's  house,  I 
shall  save  those  fellows  further  trouble  by  killin'  my- 
self here;  and  there,'  said  he,  'would  be  a  pleasant  place 
to  die — at  the  feet  of  a  woman  who  trusted  you/ 

"I  knew  by  the  look  in  his  eye  he  would  keep  his  word. 

'"Oh,  is  this  so? 'I  said. 

"'It  is  so/  he  replied,  'and  it  shall  be  done  quickly, 
for  the  courage  to  death  is  on  me.' 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS       333 

"'But  if  I  go,  you  will  still  try  to  escape?'  I  said. 
And  he  answered  that  he  would.  Then  I  spoke  a  God- 
bless-you,  at  which  he  smiled  and  shook  his  head,  and 
leanin'  over,  touched  my  hand,  and  spoke  low:  'When 
you  see  Shon  McGann,  tell  him  what  I  did,  and  say 
that  we  are  even  now.  Say  also  that  you  called  Heaven 
to  bless  me.'  Then  we  swung  away  from  each  other, 
and  the  troopers  followed  after  him,  but  let  me  go  my 
way;  from  which,  I  guessed,  they  saw  I  was  a  woman. 
And  as  I  rode  I  heard  shots,  and  turned  to  see;  but 
my  horse  stumbled  on  a  hole  and  we  fell  together,  and 
when  I  waked,  I  saw  that  the  poor  beast's  legs  were 
broken.  So  I  ended  its  misery,  and  made  my  way  as 
best  I  could  by  the  stars  to  your  house;  but  I  turned 
sick  and  fainted  at  the  door,  and  knew  no  more  until 
this  hour.  .  .  .  You  thought  me  dead,  father?" 

The  priest  bowed  his  head,  and  said:  "These  are 
strange,  sad  things,  my  child;  and  they  shall  seem 
stranger  to  you  when  you  hear  all  *' 

"When  I  hear  all!  Ah,  tell  me,  father,  do  you  know 
Shon  McGann?  Can  you  take  me  to  him?  " 

"I  know  him,  but  I  do  not  know  where  he  is.  He  left 
the  Pipi  Valley  eighteen  months  ago,  and  I  never  saw 
him  afterwards;  still  I  doubt  not  he  is  somewhere  on 
the  plains,  and  we  shall  find  him — we  shall  find  him, 
please  Heaven." 

"Is  he  a  good  lad,  father?" 

"He  is  brave,  and  he  was  always  kind.  He  came  to 
me  before  he  left  the  valley — for  he  had  trouble — and 
said  to  me:  'Father,  I  am  going  away,  and  to  what 
place  is  far  from  me  to  know,  but  wherever  it  is,  I'll 
live  a  life  that's  fit  for  men,  and  not  like  a  loafer  on  God's 
world;'  and  he  gave  me  money  for  masses  to  be  said — 
for  the  dead." 


334  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

The  girl  put  out  her  hand.  "Hush!  hush!"  she  said. 
"Let  me  think.  Masses  for  the  dead.  .  .  .  What  dead? 
Not  for  me;  he  thought  me  dead  long,  long  ago." 

"No;  not  for  you,"  was  the  slow  reply. 

She  noticed  his  hesitation,  and  said:  "Speak.  I 
know  that  there  is  sorrow  on  him.  Someone — someone 
—he  loved?" 

"Someone  he  loved,"  was  the  reply. 

"And  she  died?"    The  priest  bowed  his  head. 

"She  was  his  wife — Shon's  wife?"  and  Mary  Callen 
could  not  hide  from  her  words  the  hurt  she  felt. 

"I  married  her  to  him,  but  yet  she  was  not  his  wife." 

There  was  a  keen  distress  in  the  girl's  voice.  ' '  Father, 
tell  me,  tell  me  what  you  mean." 

"Hush,  and  I  will  tell  you  all.  He  married  her,  think- 
ing, and  she  thinking,  that  she  was  a  widowed  woman. 
But  her  husband  came  back.  A  terrible  thing  happened. 
The  woman  believing,  at  a  painful  tune,  that  he  who 
came  back  was  about  to  take  Shon's  life,  fired  at  him, 
and  wounded  him,  and  then  killed  herself." 

Mary  Callen  raised  herself  upon  her  elbow,  and  looked 
at  the  priest  in  piteous  bewilderment.  "  It  is  dreadful," 
she  said.  .  .  .  "Poor  woman!  .  .  .  And  he  had  for- 
gotten— forgotten  me.  I  was  dead  to  him,  and  am  dead 
to  him  now.  There's  nothing  left  but  to  draw  the  cold 
sheet  of  the  grave  over  me.  Better  for  me  if  I  had  never 
come — if  I  had  never  come,  and  instead  were  lyin'  by 
his  father  and  mother  beneath  the  rowan." 

The  priest  took  her  wrist  firmly  in  his.  "These  are 
not  brave  nor  Christian  words,  from  a  brave  and  Chris- 
tian girl.  But  I  know  that  grief  makes  one's  words 
wild.  Shon  McGann  shall  be  found.  In  the  days  when 
I  saw  him  most  and  best,  he  talked  of  you  as  an  angel 
gone,  and  he  had  never  sought  another  woman  had  he 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS       335 

known  that  you  lived.  The  Mounted  Police,  the  Riders 
of  the  Plains,  travel  far  and  wide.  But  now,  there  has 
come  from  the  farther  West  a  new  detachment  to  Fort 
Cypress,  and  they  may  be  able  to  help  us.  But  listen. 
There  is  something  more.  The  man  Pretty  Pierre,  did 
he  not  speak  puzzling  words  concerning  himself  and 
Shon  McGann?  And  did  he  not  say  to  you  at  the  last 
that  they  were  even  now?  Well,  can  you  not  guess?" 

Mary  Callen's  bosom  heaved  painfully  and  her  eyes 
stared  so  at  the  candle  in  the  window  that  they  seemed 
to  grow  one  with  the  flame.  At  last  a  new  look  crept 
into  them;  a  thought  made  the  lids  close  quickly  as 
though  it  burned  them.  When  they  opened  again  they 
were  full  of  tears  that  shone  in  the  shadow  and  dropped 
slowly  on  her  cheeks  and  flowed  on  and  on,  quivering 
too  in  her  throat. 

The  priest  said:  "You  understand,  my  child?" 

And  she  answered:  "I  understand.  Pierre,  the  out- 
law, was  her  husband." 

Father  Corraine  rose  and  sat  beside  the  table,  his 
book  of  offices  open  before  him.  At  length  he  said: 
" There  is  much  that  might  be  spoken;  for  the  Church 
has  words  for  every  hour  of  man's  life,  whatever  it  be; 
but  there  comes  to  me  now  a  word  to  say,  neither  from 
prayer  nor  psalm,  but  from  the  songs  of  a  country 
where  good  women  are;  where  however  poor  the  fire- 
side, the  loves  beside  it  are  born  of  the  love  of  God, 
though  the  tongue  be  angry  now  and  then,  the  foot 
stumble,  and  the  hand  quick  at  a  blow."  Then,  with  a 
soft,  ringing  voice,  he  repeated: 

" '  New  friends  will  clasp  your  hand,  dear,  new  faces  on  you  smile — 
You'll  bide  with  them  and  love  them,  but  you'll  long  for  us  the 

while; 

For  the  word  across  the  water,  and  the  farewell  by  the  stile — 
For  the  true  heart's  here,  my  darlin'.' " 


336  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

Mary  Callen's  tears  flowed  afresh  at  first;  but  soon 
after  the  voice  ceased  she  closed  her  eyes  and  her  sobs 
stopped,  and  Father  Corraine  sat  down  and  became 
lost  in  thought  as  he  watched  the  candle.  Then  there 
went  a  word  among  the  spirits  watching  that  he  was  not 
thinking  of  the  candle,  or  of  them  that  the  candle  was 
to  light  on  the  way,  nor  even  of  this  girl  near  him,  but 
of  a  summer  forty  years  gone  when  he  was  a  goodly 
youth,  with  the  red  on  his  lip  and  the  light  in  his  eye, 
and  before  him,  leaning  on  a  stile,  was  a  lass  with — 

"...  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day." 

And  all  the  good  world  swam  in  circles,  eddying  ever 
inward  until  it  streamed  intensely  and  joyously  through 
her  eyes  "blue  as  the  fairy  flax."  And  he  had  carried 
the  remembrance  of  this  away  into  the  world  with  him, 
but  had  never  gone  back  again.  He  had  travelled  be- 
yond the  seas  to  live  among  savages  and  wear  out  his 
life  in  self-denial;  and  now  he  had  come  to  the  evening 
of  his  life,  a  benignant  figure  in  a  lonely  land.  And  as 
he  sat  here  murmuring  mechanically  bits  of  an  office, 
his  heart  and  mind  were  with  a  sacred  and  distant  past. 
Yet  the  spirits  recorded  both  these  things  on  their  tab- 
lets, as  though  both  were  worthy  of  their  remembrance. 

He  did  not  know  that  he  kept  repeating  two  sentences 
over  and  over  to  himself: 

" '  Quoniam  ipse  liberavit  me  de  laqueo  wnantium  et  a  vcrbo  aspero. 
Quoniam  angelis  suis  mandavit  de  tc:  ut  custodiant  te  in  omnibus 
viis  tuis.' " 

These  he  said  at  first  softly  to  himself,  but  uncon- 
sciously his  voice  became  louder,  so  that  the  girl  heard, 
and  she  said: 

"Father  Corraine,  what  are  those  words?  I  do  not 
understand  them,  but  they  sound  comforting." 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS       337 

And  he,  waking  from  his  dream,  changed  the  Latin 
into  English,  and  said: 

" '  For  he  hath  delivered  me  from  the  snare  of  the  hunter,  and  from 

the  sharp  sword. 

For  he  hath  given  his  angels  charge  over  thee,  to  keep  thee  in  all 
thy  ways.'" 

"The  words  are  good,"  she  said.  He  then  told  her 
he  was  going  out,  but  that  he  should  be  within  call, 
saying,  at  the  same  time,  that  someone  would  no  doubt 
arrive  from  Fort  Cypress  soon:  and  he  went  from  the 
house.  Then  the  girl  rose  slowly,  crept  lamely  to  a 
chair  and  sat  down.  Outside,  the  priest  paced  up  and 
down,  stopping  now  and  then,  and  listening  as  if  for 
horses'  hoofs.  At  last  he  walked  some  distance  away 
from  the  house,  deeply  lost  in  thought,  and  he  did  not 
notice  that  a  man  came  slowly,  heavily,  to  the  door  of 
the  hut,  and  opening  it,  entered. 

Mary  Callen  rose  from  her  seat  with  a  cry  in  which 
was  timidity,  pity,  and  something  of  horror;  for  it  was 
Pretty  Pierre.  She  recoiled,  but  seeing  how  he  swayed 
with  weakness,  and  that  his  clothes  had  blood  upon 
them,  she  helped  him  to  a  chair.  He  looked  up  at  her 
with  an  enigmatical  smile,  but  he  did  not  speak. 

"Oh,"  she  whispered,  "you  are  wounded!" 

He  nodded;  but  still  he  did  not  speak.  Then  his  lips 
moved  dryly.  She  brought  him  water.  He  drank 
deeply,  and  a  sigh  of  relief  escaped  him.  "You  got  here 
safely,"  he  now  said.  "I  am  glad  of  that — though  you, 
too,  are  hurt." 

She  briefly  told  him  how,  and  then  he  said:  "Well, 
I  suppose  you  know  all  of  me  now?" 

"I  know  what  happened  in  Pipi  Valley,"  she  said, 
timidly  and  wearily.  "Father  Corraine  told  me." 


338  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"Where  is  he?" 

When  she  had  answered  him,  he  said:  "And  you 
are  willing  to  speak  with  me  still?" 

"You  saved  me,"  was  her  brief,  convincing  reply. 
"How  did  you  escape?  Did  you  fight?" 

"No,"  he  said.  "It  is  strange.  I  did  not  fight  at  all. 
As  I  said  to  you,  I  was  sick  of  blood.  These  men  were 
only  doing  their  duty.  I  might  have  killed  two  or  three 
of  them,  and  have  escaped,  but  to  what  good?  When 
they  shot  my  horse, — my  good  Sacrament, — and  put  a 
bullet  into  this  shoulder,  I  crawled  away  still,  and  led 
them  a  dance,  and  doubled  on  them;  and  here  I  am." 

"It  is  wonderful  that  they  have  not  been  here,"  she 
said. 

"Yes,  it  is  wonderful;  but  be  very  sure  they  will  be 
with  that  candle  in  the  window.  Why  is  it  there?" 

She  told  him.  He  lifted  his  brows  in  stoic  irony,  and 
said:  "Well,  we  shall  have  an  army  of  them  soon." 
He  rose  again  to  his  feet.  "I  do  not  wish  to  die,  and  I 
always  said  that  I  would  never  go  to  prison.  Do  you 
understand?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied.  She  went  immediately  to  the 
window,  took  the  candle  from  it,  and  put  it  behind  an 
improvised  shade.  No  sooner  was  this  done  than  Father 
Corraine  entered  the  room,  and  seeing  the  outlaw,  said : 
"You  have  come  here,  Pierre?"  And  his  face  showed 
wonder  and  anxiety. 

"I  have  come,  mon  p&re,  for  sanctuary." 

"For  sanctuary!  But,  my  son,  if  I  vex  not  Heaven 
by  calling  you  so,  why" — he  saw  Pierre  stagger  slightly. 
"But  you  are  wounded."  He  put  his  arm  round  the 
other's  shoulder,  and  supported  him  till  he  recovered 
himself.  Then  he  set  to  work  to  bandage  anew  the 
wound,  from  which  Pierre  himself  had  not  unskilfully 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS       339 

extracted  the  bullet.  While  doing  so,  the  outlaw  said 
to  him: 

"Father  Corraine,  I  am  hunted  like  a  coyote  for  a 
crime  I  did  not  commit.  But  if  I  am  arrested  they  will 
no  doubt  charge  me  with  other  things — ancient  things. 
Well,  I  have  said  that  I  should  never  be  sent  to  gaol, 
and  I  never  shall;  but  I  do  not  wish  to  die  at  this  mo- 
ment, and  I  do  not  wish  to  fight.  What  is  there  left?" 

"How  do  you  come  here,  Pierre?" 

He  lifted  his  eyes  heavily  to  Mary  Callen,  and  she 
told  Father  Corraine  what  had  been  told  her.  When 
she  had  finished,  Pierre  added: 

"I  am  no  coward,  as  you  will  witness;  but  as  I  said, 
neither  gaol  nor  death  do  I  wish.  Well,  if  they  should 
come  here,  and  you  said,  Pierre  is  not  here,  even  though 
I  was  in  the  next  room,  they  would  believe  you,  and  they 
would  not  search.  Well,  I  ask  such  sanctuary." 

The  priest  recoiled  and  raised  his  hand  in  protest. 
Then,  after  a  moment,  he  said: 

"How  do  you  deserve  this?  Do  you  know  what  you 
ask?" 

11  Ah,  oui,  I  know  it  is  immense,  and  I  deserve  noth- 
ing: and  in  return  I  can  offer  nothing,  not  even  that 
I  will  repent.  And  I  have  done  no  good  in  the  world; 
but  still  perhaps  I  am  worth  the  saving,  as  may  be 
seen  in  the  end.  As  for  you,  well,  you  will  do  a  little 
wrong  so  that  the  end  will  be  right.  So?" 

The  priest's  eyes  looked  out  long  and  sadly  at  the 
man  from  under  his  venerable  brows,  as  though  he 
would  see  through  him  and  beyond  him  to  that  end; 
and  at  last  he  spoke  in  a  low,  firm  voice : 

"Pierre,  you  have  been  a  bad  man;  but  sometimes 
you  have  been  generous,  and  of  a  few  good  acts  I 
know — " 


340  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"No,  not  good,"  the  other  interrupted.  "I  ask  this 
of  your  charity." 

"There  is  the  law,  and  my  conscience." 

"The  law!  the  law!"  and  there  was  sharp  satire  in 
the  half-breed's  voice.  "What  has  it  done  in  the  West? 
Think,  mon  p&re!  Do  you  not  know  a  hundred  cases 
where  the  law  has  dealt  foully?  There  was  more  justice 
before  we  had  law.  Law — "  And  he  named  over 
swiftly,  scornfully,  a  score  of  names  and  incidents,  to 
which  Father  Corraine  listened  intently.  "But,"  said 
Pierre,  gently,  at  last,  "but  for  your  conscience,  m'sieu', 
that  is  greater  than  law.  For  you  are  a  good  man  and 
a  wise  man;  and  you  know  that  I  shall  pay  my  debts 
of  every  kind  some  sure  day.  That  should  satisfy  your 
justice,  but  you  are  merciful  for  the  moment,  and  you 
will  spare  until  the  time  be  come,  until  the  corn  is  ripe 
in  the  ear.  Why  should  I  plead?  It  is  foolish.  Still, 
it  is  my  whim,  of  which,  perhaps,  I  shall  be  sorry  to- 
morrow .  .  .  Hark!"  he  added,  and  then  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  smiled.  There  were  sounds  of  hoof- 
beats  coming  faintly  to  them.  Father  Corraine  threw 
open  the  door  of  the  other  room  of  the  hut,  and  said: 
"Go  in  there — Pierre.  We  shall  see  ...  we  shall 
see." 

The  outlaw  looked  at  the  priest,  as  if  hesitating;  but, 
after,  nodded  meaningly  to  himself,  and  entered  the 
room  and  shut  the  door.  The  priest  stood  listening. 
When  the  hoof-beats  stopped,  he  opened  the  door,  and 
went  out.  In  the  dark  he  could  see  that  men  were  dis- 
mounting from  their  horses.  He  stood  still  and  waited. 
Presently  a  trooper  stepped  forward  and  said  warmly, 
yet  brusquely,  as  became  his  office:  "Father  Corraine, 
we  meet  again!" 

The  priest's  face  was  overswept  by  many  expressions, 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS       341 

'in  which  marvel  and  trouble  were  uppermost,  while 
joy  was  in  less  distinctness. 

"Surely,"  he  said,  "it  is  Shon  McGann." 

"Shon  McGann,  and  no  other. — I  that  laughed  at 
the  law  for  many  a  year, — though  never  breaking  it 
beyond  repair, — took  your  advice,  Father  Corraine,  and 
here  I  am,  holding  that  law  now  as  my  bosom  friend  at 
the  saddle's  pommel.  Corporal  Shon  McGann,  at  your 
service." 

They  clasped  hands,  and  the  priest  said:  "You  have 
come  at  my  call  from  Fort  Cypress?  " 

"Yes.  But  not  these  others.  They  are  after  a  man 
that's  played  ducks  and  drakes  with  the  statutes — 
Heaven  be  merciful  to  him,  I  say.  For  there's  naught 
I  treasure  against  him ;  the  will  of  God  bein'  in  it  all, 
with  some  doin'  of  the  Devil,  too,  maybe." 

Pretty  Pierre,  standing  with  ear  to  the  window  of 
the  dark  room,  heard  all  this,  and  he  pressed  his  upper 
lip  hard  with  his  forefinger,  as  if  something  disturbed 
him. 

Shon  continued.  "I'm  glad  I  wasn't  sent  after  him 
as  all  these  here  know;  for  it's  little  I'd  like  to  clap 
irons  on  his  wrists,  or  whistle  him  to  come  to  me  with 
a  Winchester  or  a  Navy.  So  I'm  here  on  my  business, 
and  they're  here  on  theirs.  Though  we  come  together 
it's  because  we  met  each  other  hereaway.  They've  a 
thought  that,  maybe,  Pretty  Pierre  has  taken  refuge 
with  you.  They'll  little  like  to  disturb  you,  I  know. 
But  with  dead  in  your  house,  and  you  givin'  the  word 
of  truth, — which  none  other  could  fall  from  your  lips, — 
they'll  go  on  their  way  to  look  elsewhere." 

The  priest's  face  was  pinched,  and  there  was  a 
wrench  at  his  heart.  He  turned  to  the  others.  A 
trooper  stepped  forward. 


342  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

"Father  Corraine,"  he  said,  "it  is  my  duty  to  search 
your  house;  but  not  a  foot  will  I  stretch  across  your 
threshold  if  you  say  no,  and  give  the  word  that  the 
man  is  not  with  you." 

"Corporal  McGann,"  said  the  priest,  "the  woman 
whom  I  thought  was  dead  did  not  die,  as  you  shall  see. 
There  is  no  need  for  inquiry.  But  she  will  go  with  you 
to  Fort  Cypress.  As  for  the  other,  you  say  that  Father 
Corraine's  threshold  is  his  own,  and  at  his  own  com- 
mand. His  home  is  now  a  sanctuary — for  the  afflicted." 
He  went  towards  the  door.  As  he  did  so,  Mary  Callen, 
who  had  been  listening  inside  the  room  with  shaking 
frame  and  bursting  heart,  dropped  on  her  knees  beside 
the  table,  her  head  in  her  arms.  The  door  opened. 
"See,"  said  the  priest,  "a  woman  who  is  injured  and 
suffering." 

"Ah,"  rejoined  the  trooper,  "perhaps  it  is  the  woman 
who  was  riding  with  the  half-breed.  We  found  her 
dead  horse." 

The  priest  nodded.  Shon  McGann  looked  at  the 
crouching  figure  by  the  table  pityingly.  As  he  looked 
he  was  stirred,  he  knew  not  why.  And  she,  though  she 
did  not  look,  knew  that  his  gaze  was  on  her;  and  all 
her  will  was  spent  in  holding  her  eyes  from  his  face,  and 
from  crying  out  to  him. 

"And  Pretty  Pierre,"  said  the  trooper,  "is  not  here 
with  her?" 

There  was  an  unfathomable  sadness  in  the  priest's 
eyes,  as,  with  a  slight  motion  of  the  hand  towards  the 
room,  he  said:  "You  see — he  is  not  here." 

The  trooper  and  his  men  immediately  mounted ;  but 
one  of  them,  young  Tim  Kearney,  slid  from  his  horse, 
and  came  and  dropped  on  his  knee  hi  front  of  the 
priest. 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS       343 

"It's  many  a  day,"  he  said,  "since  before  God  or 
man  I  bent  a  knee — more  shame  to  me  for  that,  and  for 
mad  days  gone;  but  I  care  not  who  knows  it,  I  want  a 
word  of  blessin'  from  the  man  that's  been  out  here  like 
a  saint  in  the  wilderness,  with  a  heart  like  the  Son  o' 
God." 

The  priest  looked  at  the  man  at  first  as  if  scarce  com- 
prehending this  act  so  familiar  to  him,  then  he  slowly 
stretched  out  his  hand,  said  some  words  in  benediction, 
and  made  the  sacred  gesture.  But  his  face  had  a  strange 
and  absent  look,  and  he  held  the  hand  poised,  even  when 
the  man  had  risen  and  mounted  his  horse.  One  by  one 
the  troopers  rode  through  the  faint  belt  of  light  that 
stretched  from  the  door,  and  were  lost  in  the  darkness, 
the  thud  of  their  horses'  hoofs  echoing  behind  them. 
But  a  change  had  come  over  Corporal  Shon  McGann. 
He  looked  at  Father  Corraine  with  concern  and  per- 
plexity. He  alone  of  those  who  were  there  had  caught 
the  unreal  note  in  the  proceedings.  His  eyes  were  bent 
on  the  darkness  into  which  the  men  had  gone,  and  his 
fingers  toyed  for  an  instant  with  his  whistle;  but  he 
said  a  hard  word  of  himself  under  his  breath,  and  turned 
to  meet  Father  Corraine's  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Shon  McGann,"  the  priest  said,  "I  have  words  to 
say  to  you  concerning  this  poor  girl." 

"You  wish  to  have  her  taken  to  the  Fort,  I  suppose? 
What  was  she  doing  with  Pretty  Pierre?" 

"I  wish  her  taken  to  her  home." 

"Where  is  her  home,  father?"  And  his  eyes  were 
cast  with  trouble  on  the  girl,  though  he  could  assign 
no  cause  for  that. 

"Her  home,  Shon," — the  priest's  voice  was  very  gen- 
tle— "her  home  was  where  they  sing  such  words  as 
these  of  a  wanderer: 


344  PIERRE   AND   HIS  PEOPLE 

" '  You'll  hear  the  wild  birds  singin'  beneath  a  brighter  sky, 
The  roof-tree  of  your  home,  dear,  it  will  be  grand  and 

high; 
But  you'll  hunger  for  the  hearthstone  where  a  child  you 

used  to  lie — 
You'll  be  comin'  back,  my  darlinV  " 

During  these  words  Shon's  face  ran  white,  then  red; 
and  now  he  stepped  inside  the  door  like  one  in  a  dream, 
and  the  girl's  face  was  lifted  to  his  as  though  he  had 
called  her.  "Mary — Mary  Callen ! "  he  cried.  His  arms 
spread  out,  then  dropped  to  his  side,  and  he  fell  on  his 
knees  by  the  table  facing  her,  and  looked  at  her  with 
love  and  horror  warring  in  his  face ;  for  the  remembrance 
that  she  had  been  with  Pierre  was  like  the  hand  of  the 
grave  upon  him.  Moving  not  at  all,  she  looked  at  him, 
a  numb  despondency  in  her  face.  Suddenly  Shon's  look 
grew  stern,  and  he  was  about  to  rise;  but  Father  Cor- 
raine  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  said :  "  Stay  where 
you  are,  man — on  your  knees.  There  is  your  place  just 
now.  Be  not  so  quick  to  judge,  and  remember  your 
own  sins  before  you  charge  others  without  knowledge. 
Listen  now  to  me." 

And  he  spoke  Mary  Callen's  tale  as  he  knew  it,  and 
as  she  had  given  it  to  him,  not  forgetting  to  mention 
that  she  had  been  told  the  thing  which  had  occurred 
in  Pipi  Valley. 

The  heroic  devotion  of  this  woman,  and  Pretty 
Pierre's  act  of  friendship  to  her,  together  with  the  swift 
panorama  of  his  past  across  the  seas,  awoke  the  whole 
man  in  Shon,  as  the  staunch  life  that  he  had  lately  led 
rendered  it  possible.  There  was  a  grave,  kind  look  upon 
his  face  when  he  rose  at  the  ending  of  the  tale,  and  came 
to  her,  saying: 

"Mary,  it  is  I  who  need  forgiveness.    Will  you  come 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS       345 

'now  to  the  home  you  wanted?"  and  he  stretched  his 
arms  to  her.  .  .  . 

An  hour  after,  as  the  three  sat  there,  the  door  of  the 
other  room  opened,  and  Pretty  Pierre  came  out  silently, 
and  was  about  to  pass  from  the  hut;  but  the  priest  put 
a  hand  on  his  arm,  and  said: 

"Where  do  you  go,  Pierre?" 

Pierre  shrugged  his  shoulder  slightly: 

"I  do  not  know.  Mon  Dieu! — that  I  have  put  this 
upon  you! — you  that  never  spoke  but  the  truth." 

"You  have  made  my  sin  of  no  avail,"  the  priest  re- 
plied; and  he  motioned  towards  Shon  McGann,  who 
was  now  risen  to  his  feet,  Mary  clinging  to  his  arm. 

"Father  Corraine,"  said  Shon,  "it  is  my  duty  to  ar- 
rest this  man;  but  I  cannot  do  it,  would  not  do  it,  if  he 
came  and  offered  his  arms  for  the  steel.  Ftt  take  the 
wrong  of  this  now,  sir,  and  such  shame  as  there  is  in  that 
falsehood  on  my  shoulders.  And  she  here  and  I,  and 
this  man  too,  I  doubt  not,  will  carry  your  sin — as  you 
call  it — to  our  graves,  without  shame." 

Father  Corraine  shook  his  head  sadly,  and  made  no 
reply,  for  his  soul  was  heavy.  He  motioned  them  all  to 
sit  down.  And  they  sat  there  by  the  light  of  a  flickering 
candle,  with  the  door  bolted  and  a  cassock  hung  across 
the  window,  lest  by  any  chance  this  uncommon  thing 
should  be  seen.  But  the  priest  remained  in  a  shadowed 
corner,  with  a  little  book  in  his  hand,  and  he  was  long  on 
his  knees.  And  when  morning  came  they  had  neither 
slept  nor  changed  the  fashion  of  their  watch,  save  for  a 
moment  now  and  then,  when  Pierre  suffered  from  the 
pain  of  his  wound,  and  silently  passed  up  and  down  the 
little  room. 

The  morning  was  half  gone  when  Shon  McGann 
and  Mary  Callen  stood  beside  their  horses,  ready  to 


346  PIERRE  AND   HIS  PEOPLE 

mount  and  go;  for  Mary  had  persisted  that  she  could 
travel — joy  makes  such  marvellous  healing.  When  the 
moment  of  parting  came,  Pierre  was  not  there.  Mary 
whispered  to  her  lover  concerning  this.  The  priest  went 
to  the  door  of  the  hut  and  called  him.  He  came  out 
slowly. 

" Pierre,"  said  Shon,  "there's  a  word  to  be  said  be- 
tween us  that  had  best  be  spoken  now,  though  it's  not 
aisy.  It's  little  you  or  I  will  care  to  meet  again  in  this 
world.  There's  been  credit  given  and  debts  paid  by 
both  of  us  since  the  hour  when  we  first  met;  and  it 
needs  thinking  to  tell  which  is  the  debtor  now,  for 
deeds  are  hard  to  reckon;  but,  before  God,  I  believe 
it's  meself;"  and  he  turned  and  looked  fondly  at  Mary 
Callen. 

And  Pierre  replied:  "Shon  McGann,  I  make  no  reck- 
oning close;  but  we  will  square  all  accounts  here,  as 
you  say,  and  for  the  last  time;  for  never  again  shall  we 
meet,  if  it's  within  my  will  or  doing.  But  I  say  I  am 
the  debtor;  and  if  I  pay  not  here,  there  will  come  a 
time!"  and  he  caught  his  shoulder  as  it  shrunk  in  pain 
of  his  wound.  He  tapped  the  wound  lightly,  and  said 
with  irony:  "This  is  my  note  of  hand  for  my  debt, 
Shon  McGann.  Eh,  bien!" 

Then  he  tossed  his  fingers  indolently  towards  Shon, 
and  turning  his  eyes  slowly  to  Mary  Callen,  raised  his 
hat  in  good-bye.  She  put  out  her  hand  impulsively  to 
him,  but  Pierre,  shaking  his  head,  looked  away.  Shon 
put  his  hand  gently  on  her  arm.  "No,  no,"  he  said  in 
a  whisper,  "there  can  be  no  touch  of  hands  between 
us." 

And  Pierre,  looking  up,  added:  "C'est  vrai.  That  is 
the  truth.  You  go — home.  I  got  to  hide.  So — so." 

And  he  turned  and  went  into  the  hut. 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS       347 

The  others  set  their  faces  northward,  and  Father  Cor- 
raine  walked  beside  Mary  Callen's  horse,  talking  quietly 
of  then:  future  life,  and  speaking,  as  he  would  never 
speak  again,  of  days  in  that  green  land  of  then*  birth. 
At  length,  upon  a  dividing  swell  of  the  prairie,  he 
paused  to  say  farewell. 

Many  times  the  two  turned  to  see,  and  he  was  there, 
looking  after  them;  his  forehead  bared  to  the  clear 
inspiring  wind,  his  grey  hair  blown  back,  his  hands 
clasped.  Before  descending  the  trough  of  a  great  land- 
wave,  they  turned  for  the  last  time,  and  saw  him  stand- 
ing motionless,  the  one  solitary  being  in  all  their  wide 
horizon. 

But  outside  the  line  of  vision  there  sat  a  man  in  a 
prairie  hut,  whose  eyes  travelled  over  the  valley  of 
blue  sky  stretching  away  beyond  the  morning,  whose 
face  was  pale  and  cold.  For  hours  he  sat  unmoving, 
and  when,  at  last,  someone  gently  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder,  he  only  shook  his  head,  and  went  on  thinking. 

He  was  busy  with  the  grim  ledger  of  his  life. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACU 

mi  inn  nun 


mi  i  mi  mil  inn  HIII  ii 

A     000128863 


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